


The Long Road to Recovery

by Huehxolotl



Series: The Reflection That Almost Was [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amdapor and Mhachi history stolen and twisted to my liking, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Mutual pining everywheeeeere, Post-Calamity, Vochstein is the cutest plush griffin with a soul, get it together people, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-10 01:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17416250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huehxolotl/pseuds/Huehxolotl
Summary: The Calamity has come and gone, but Dalamud's fall has left Eorzea and its people shattered and broken. The Hext/Rhul family, on top of that all, has their own fair share of problems; emotional, mental, and physical. But as Eorzea picks itself up and starts to mend, so too will their family.And, just maybe, they'll find everything they've been missing along the way.





	1. Lyse

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a new installment! For totally understandable reasons, everyone is a bit depressed, but they have five years to get it together. Certain tags will be updated as I post the rest of the chapters, but I promise that the Yda and Y'mhitra get good screen time too. If we want them to change things for the better in ARR, they all have a lot of work to do. >:D

**1572**

The Waking Sands, home to the newly formed Scions of the Seventh Dawn, would be, at any other time, a very impressive hideaway for Eorzea’s newest secret group. In her current condition, however, she is less appreciative and more annoyed as she glares at the staircase that is the only way out of the building.

“ _Are you coming?_ ”

“Yeah. I just need to. Prepare myself. And take it slow. Very...slow,” she tells Vochstein, who sits on the steps waiting for her.

“If it is an escape you require, I will gladly carry you up,” Thancred’s amused voice offers from behind her.

Flinching, she spins to find the rogue and Minfilia smiling at her, the two having snuck up on her while she was lost in thought. She cringes, fidgets with her vest, and fights a blush at being spotted. “I just thought that I might need some...fresh air. Or something.”

“Ah, fresh air and space from a certain conjurer’s _dedicated_ care, I presume.”

She can’t bring herself to verbally agree with Thancred’s sniggered observation, well aware that her need for space makes her sound ungrateful for Shtola’s help. Especially when she so rarely has a chance to see her best friend for two sennights in a row. But. Well. She isn’t a child, and she doesn’t need a babysitter at all hours of the day! Disregarding the fact that she has technically escaped from her room the moment she was left alone. Honestly. The only person worse than Shtola is Yda, and she shudders to imagine the both of them being at the Waking Sands at once. She’d never be able to escape.

Minfilia, as usual, comes to her rescue with a mischievous smile. “Oh, do quit your teasing, Thancred. We haven’t much time to sneak out unnoticed, after all. Should she catch us out here, we will have no recourse but to lay the blame on yourself.”

Thancred’s smile falters at the threat of being forced to bear the brunt of Shtola’s anger, and he quickly makes his way to her side to offer his back. As much as she hates relying on the generosity and strength of others, she does not hesitate to take the offer. She’ll do anything for some fresh air. There is no one to halt their progress but Ivoix, who only scoffs as their paths cross.

Vochstein whistles in delight as he runs past them to launch into the air, eagerly flying in circles above them. “ _Freedom, mother_!” he exclaims joyfully. “ _Let’s play_!”

“Go ahead and explore. We can exercise once we settle,” she calls out. Thancred does not answer the seemingly random comment. He is used to her replying to Vochstein’s words; words that only Shtola, herself, and Scions that possess the Echo can hear. If there was anything good about being swallowed by Atomos, left in a coma for several moons, and having her aether severely compromised, it’s that Vochstein’s “voice” became audible to her.

Though none can say how, her familiar had, in the instant that their aether mixed with the void, somehow gained a _soul_. A young one, but a fully fledged soul nonetheless.

Minfilia giggles when a stray gust of wind diverts the excited familiar from his course, nearly causing him to crash into a statue. “It seems you both are overdue for fresh air.”

“Says the one who never leaves her office.”

“Were I to leave, where then would you take refuge from your healers?” Minfilia teases.

She laughs nervously. It’s true that, in the two moons she has been capable of walking, she has taken to hiding in Minfilia’s office in search of privacy. Not that it’s really _private_ , since she isn’t alone, but the Antecedent is an acceptable caretaker in her family’s mind, and Minfilia has no problem with her loitering and Vochstein’s endless stream of questions and odd observations. It really isn’t much of a change in scenery, but anything at all is better than being in the room so graciously provided to her. She’s had enough of that place, thank you very much.

Even if it means helping Minfilia with _paperwork_. Ugh. As if Hahette doesn’t leave enough of it for her whenever she visits.

“I know they said it would take time to recover, but I thought, you know. A moon. Maybe two. Not four and counting,” she complains after the three have settled and acquired fresh fruit from a local stall. Though the various Scion healers that are helping her are among some of the most skilled in the land, the moons of subpar conditions at Drybone and the added complications of...whatever it is that the Atomos did to her aether meant that she, seven moons after the Calamity, can’t handle a set of _stairs_ without serious preparation.

It’s partially her own fault, she knows. The strain of relearning to use her new, infected aether stymies her physical recovery to a crawl. She was given the option of focusing on her physical recovery via dampening her aether, but the Archons could not say how letting the void infection go unchecked would have affected her ability to use aether.

Obviously, that really wasn’t an option at all.

“ _Mother? Is it time to play_?”

Looking up at the gliding griffin, she grins. “If you ask nicely, I’m sure he’ll play catch with you.”

Vochstein chirps and dives down, settling on the bench next to Thancred to stare at him expectantly. His tail wags as he awaits a favorable response. The rogue has never before turned down a request to play, and they don’t expect him to start now.

“A request?” he laughs, petting Vochstein heavily. “Far be it for me to disappoint my good friend.”

Sitting there chatting with Minfilia, relaxing in the cool sea breeze of Vesper Bay, and keeping score in Vochstein and Thancred’s various games, she feels a rare kind of peace. With the struggles of the realm, and her own personal struggles, it isn’t often that she finds comfort outside of sleep. The two Scions with her are in a similar position, and they eagerly take advantage of their stolen time. So much so that they lose track of it, and, bells later, find themselves being herded back to the Waking Sands by a _very_ unimpressed Shtola. The three are a united front against the accusations of “irresponsible wandering and encouragement of a person still recovering from near-fatal wounds.” Not even Vochstein is spared a scolding, forcing her to make a claim of needing a bath to get them some peace.

“ _Is Mother angry_?”

Opening one eye, she smiles reassuringly at Vochstein, who is resting on the stool next to the tub as she bathes. He never travels far from her. Not anymore. “More concerned than angry, I think. But definitely not happy.”

“ _It sounded like anger_ ,” he says uneasily. Curling into a ball, his ears droop as he rests his head on his front paws, and she imagines that he would be fighting tears if he were capable of crying. “ _We only wanted to play…_ ”

Reaching out to scratch his head, she sighs and tries to soothe him. Not that she blames him for being so worried. Shtola is _scary_ when she’s in a bad mood. “If she were really angry, she would have grounded us.”

“Don’t tempt me,” the subject of their conversation says as she opens the door unexpectedly. Shtola holds up a bottle, ignoring her embarrassed yelp and groan of pain when her elbow hits the edge of bathtub as she tries pull it back to her side. “This arrived from Mhitra. We’re to let you soak in it.”

She makes an agreeing noise that more resembles a squeak and hugs her knees to her chest. Unable to bear meeting Shtola’s eyes, she chooses to focus on her racing heart, the light footsteps of her approaching friend, and her sudden gratitude that the bath water is opaque and filled with bubbles.

The potion Mhitra has sent is meant to help her relax and heal. Though having mentioned it moons ago, she had also lamented the impossibility of teleporting to Sharlayan to acquire any. The aether of Eorzea was -and still is- too compromised to attempt teleportation, and maritime travel, like everything else, had also been disrupted by the Calamity. Even now, can say when either method of traveling will recover.

Shtola is quick to pour the potion into her bath -they’re both aware that she doesn’t have the strength to take out the cork- and retreat, but she is halted by Vochstein’s plaintive, “ _Will you stay, Mother_?”

His innocent question earns him two disagreements; one horrified and one sharp. Both cause him to shrink back in fear and dejection. Immediately regretting their harsh reaction, they struggle to reassure the griffin who only wants to see his family happy.

“She can’t stay. She has to, uh.”

Shtola recovers from the shock faster, rescuing the situation with a quick, “Dinner. Lyse needs dinner prepared, and we ought to examine your aether after your activities today.”

Any and all apprehension in the griffin is lost at the promise of his favorite activity, his demeanor brightening as he accepts the hasty excuse. Objective complete, Shtola leaves without further interruptions, shoulders tense and a light blush staining her cheeks.

When she is sure that she can’t be heard by Miqo’te ears, she groans and drops her head against the tub wall. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that? I'm surprised she didn't go along with it just to make me squirm, though. How weird.”

Weird, yes, but so is everyone else in her family these days.

Yda, who holds her tighter, talks less, and, she suspects, uses her to avoid Papalymo; something she has never seen happen in all the time that the Lalafell has been part of their lives.

Mhitra, whose smiles never seem to reach her eyes anymore, who carefully avoids speaking of the time they believed her to be dead, and watches Shtola and Yda as though they might fall apart at any moment.

Shtola, who vacillates between overbearingly protective and distant on any given day; monitoring her every move to ensure she heals properly during the day, yet curling as far away from her as possible when they sleep.

Her thoughts disturb her for the rest of the night. Her physical injuries can be healed, her aether can be fixed, but the problems in her family are only getting worse and more confusing. Perhaps she ought to ask Minfilia about it. An outside perspective might be exactly what she needs.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Shtola hums absently, intently reading dusty old book she has borrowed from old grumpy, Urianger. “I am. Already making plans for further unauthorised escapades, are you?”

Were she in a less melancholy mood, she might have pouted, or argued, or at least scowled, but all she can think about is the pervasive feeling that something is _wrong_. Something more than calamities and lost friends and the never-ending stream of work. Staring at her friend, she vividly recalls how often her touch is avoided, how hugs are tense and short.

“You can sleep without me,” she blurts out.

 _That_ earns Shtola’s attention. “Beg pardon? You need to recuperate and-”

“And I will. Just. I’m not sleepy yet and you’re the one that’s leaving tomorrow and you need your rest.” Her excuse is flimsy and unbelievable even to her own ears, but it’s all she has. Mustering all of her strength and her nerves, she makes a valiant attempt to walk out of the room as casually as possible.

Shtola, however, is quick to stand in her way, arms crossed, ears pointed dangerously low, and lips pulled into a scowl.

“Don’t,” she says softly, halting whatever scolding is about to start. “You’ll sleep better without me, and we both know it.”

The guilt that crosses Shtola’s face seals her suspicions, and perhaps some of her heart as well for the pain it causes. There is a tense moment where both wait for the other to break the silence.

She does first, by taking a firm step. Then another. And another, her footsteps as loud and final as a gunshot, until she is opening the door.

Shtola doesn’t stop her this time, and when A’aba rouses her from her fitful nap on the couch many bells later, her friend is gone.

Time passes in a blur. Nothing feels real. How can it, when she is pretty sure she has managed to break the one bond she has always relied on? Has she done something wrong? Is she too broken for Shtola to put up with? Is something wrong with _Shtola_?

At some point she wonders if this is her new life; swinging between desperately trying to figure out what has gone wrong and absolute numbness. She tries, of course. She tries _so hard_ to smile and be normal during the day. The others don’t need to worry about her, not with all the other work they have, with all their own pain that they are dealing with.

But she forgets that it’s impossible to hide things from Thancred, that Ivoix and A’aba know her as well as Miheone by now, and that Minfilia is...Minfilia. They do their best to cheer her up, to discover the root of her despair, but she dodges their questions, weaves through their increasingly unsubtle interrogations, and spends most of her days hiding in the room she once desperately avoided. Talking about her problems is the last thing she wants to do, because if she talks about it, it will be _real_ and she can’t handle that. Not right now.

Vochstein is all that keeps her sane. His constant presence gives her the strength to get through the days, because the poor child doesn’t deserve to think that his parents are - _are what, arguing, fighting, breaking up in a way?_ \- having issues. He wouldn’t understand, because _she_ doesn’t understand.

He asks late one night when Shtola is coming home. It’s not unusual. He has retained few concrete memories from the time before the Calamity. He knows that his mother and the rest of their family is out helping people, and doesn’t question their need to leave for sennights at a time, but he is still a child who misses his family.

She thinks that she answers his question calmly, but she must have reacted negatively in some way. Ivoix -their dinner companion, for her friends now insist that at least one of them join her for dinner every night- is quick to distract Vochstein with a toy, then sits next to her on the bed and rests a hand on her shoulder.

“She’ll be back,” he says softly.

Shuddering, she tries to swallow away the lump in her throat and stares at the ground.

“Do you...want her to come back?”

Yes. Of course she does. Of course she wants Shtola back. Safe. Unharmed.

_“You’ll sleep better without me and, we both know it.”_

_You’re_ better off _without me, and we both know it._

Ivoix pulls her into a tight hug, and she realizes that she’s crying, that she hasn’t answered him because even though every fiber of her being wants Shtola to be the one holding her, she isn’t sure that’s what _Shtola_ wants. If Shtola comes back, there’s a good chance that it won’t be. Is it better to never know and break herself wondering, or to know and be broken by the answer?

Her too good, too patient friend simply holds her while she cries and mutters broken sentences, providing steady comfort and soft murmurs assuring her that they will work this out, that her friend is simply healing, that _she will be fine_.

She sleeps deeply for the first time since Shtola left. So deeply that it is dark again when she wakes. Stumbling out of her room and into the empty stone hallways for a very late dinner -or early breakfast, she isn’t quite sure- she finds Papalymo already raiding the storage area for food. He is still dressed for travel, dirt staining his shoes and the hem of his robe. He must have just finished giving his report, if he hasn’t even showered yet.

Papalymo hates being dirty almost as much as he hates being hungry, which is pretty unfortunate for him, considering his position as Yda’s partner.

“Are there any cookies in there?”

Papalymo glances back at her with a huff. “Cookies are _not_ a proper meal. I’ll prepare us sandwiches.”

Though tired and heartbroken, she can’t help but grin. He makes the best sandwiches.

As they wait, Vochstein investigates the dining area. The Scions as a whole have a bad habit of leaving their belongings laying around, and her griffin enjoys filching abandoned crystals to play with. It doesn’t take her friend long to make their food, and as exhausted as they are, they waste no time in devouring the simple yet tasty meal.

“She did not handle your loss well, you know.”

She chokes on the last bit of her meal, immediately contemplating running. Had Minfilia told him that something is wrong? Stupid question. Ivoix had to have spoken to his leader about her breakdown, if only to seek advice on how to proceed. Which, of course, means Minfilia had likely shared her concerns with someone who is more involved with the women in question.

“Not that any of us did, truthfully,” he continues after her coughing has ceased. “The loss of Louisoix, the loss of the mysterious warriors that have been wiped from our memory, the near total destruction of Eorzea. Had it been merely those, I daresay she would have had the strength to weather that pain. But you? The one closest, dearest to her? Though we are all prepared to make sacrifices, or to watch others make them, we all have our limits. You are Y’shtola’s.”

His words don’t make any sense. _Her_? Being that important to Shtola? That can’t be right. Shtola is. She’s _special_. Special like Yda. Like the other Scions. They save the world. They’re strong and amazing and. And. They just. They’re _better_ than someone like her. She shouldn’t matter that much. They’re only.

Only...friends. _Best_ friends. Family. What is she thinking? Shtola is a protective, caring person underneath her sarcasm and impatience.

“Then why is she so afraid to hug me?” she asks weakly. Hug her, touch her, sleep with her. She’s lucky if Shtola _looks_ at her, some days.

Papalymo sighs and is silent while he chooses his words. “Y’shtola prides herself on her fortitude and willpower. Unlike Yda and yourself, however, she is not so well-practiced at losing loved ones. All she requires is some time and space, Lyse. The pain of failing a loved one is not so easily forgotten, even if you were brought back to us in the end. Those moons were as an eternity.”

Time and space? She can do that. She can give Shtola all the time and space she needs, if that’s what will help her dearest friend.

The advice sounds awfully...familiar, though.

 _“Of course we aren’t fighting! I just. He. ...I needed space. Or. Something. It’s. It’s nothing to worry about._ ”

“Is that why you haven’t worked with Yda lately?”

This time, it is Papalymo that is caught off guard. Jaw clenching, he looks off to the side and closes his eyes. “You certainly are perceptive when you want to be. Would that you both were.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, shoulders dropping as he releases his tension to replace it with weariness. “The issues between Yda and myself are of a different nature, and a long time in coming, to be entirely honest. I thought it prudent that we work separately for the time being.”

They are both quiet after that, stewing over their individual problems until they retreat to their rooms. While Papalymo’s advice hasn’t solved her problem, it has given her hope, and a bit of peace. It takes her another few days to brave the Waking Sands during the daytime hours, but Minfilia’s relieved smile when she wanders into her office is worth it.

It’s just another boring night sitting in bed, brushing Vochstein with slow, lazy motions born of her own exhaustion when Shtola returns from her mission. She isn’t expecting her door to open so late at night, isn’t expecting her friend -are they still?- to walk in, dressed for bed, but she does and her tired mind struggles to process what she is seeing.

Vochstein, however, has no such issue, tearing himself away from her ministrations in order to greet Shtola with his version of a hug. “ _Mother! You have returned!_ ”

A weak -but genuine- smile lights Shtola’s face as she allows the griffin to settle in her arms and press his marks against hers. “I’d intended to return sooner, but we ran afoul of a group of brigands.”

Words are stuck in her throat, and she has to force herself to breathe. What is she supposed to do? What is she supposed to say? Shtola, unbothered by the lack of welcoming words, crosses the room to settle next to her on the bed.

“Forgive me.”

Her whispered words are heavy with regret, but the effect they have on her is immediate. The tightness in her chest loosens, the weight of her fear dissipates, and the world becomes a little brighter again.

Pulling Shtola into a tight hug, there are no words to describe her relief when, instead of flinching away, her friend sinks into the hold, tucking her head under her chin. “We’ll get through it. We always do.”

Shtola hums in content, ear tickling her cheek and jaw as they twitch. She wants to laugh from joy, cry from her pain, hold Shtola for all of eternity. Unable to help herself, needing to make _sure_ this is real, that her best friend is here, she rests her hand on Shtola’s jaw and lightly traces her thumb up along her jaw, then back across her marks, stopping at the corner of her lips. Her hand lingers there, something imperceptible shifting in the room. Shtola pulls back just enough that she can meet her eyes, a strange yet captivating expression on her face.

“ _I cannot wait until we are better and can join you_ ,” Vochstein remarks, oblivious to the mood. “ _Mother is very sad when you leave_.”

Mortified at the griffin’s comment -at her own actions- she drops her hand, heat rising to her cheeks as she switches her gaze down to Vochstein. “You don’t need to tell her that!” she hisses to him.

“ _But it is true?_ ”

“Now, now. We should always encourage him to be truthful, Lyse.” She can’t see Shtola’s smirk, but she can hear it in her joking words.

“Well. You. You know what? I think we should all go to bed. No more talking!”


	2. Y'shtola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'shtola has a million and one things to worry about, but rebuilding Eorzea and fighting primals isn't nearly the most stressful thing in her life.

**1573**

“ _Gods, once we deal with these imperials, we’re going house-hunting for your little Hext-Rhul family. You’re multiplying by the year!_ ”

Two and a half moons after Leviathan’s disastrous summoning finds them sailing back to Vylbrand, Lyse having recovered enough to return home. Mission ready status will take many more moons to achieve, but she has nearly fully recovered physically, and has learned to harness her aether without being harmed by the void taint. No longer requiring constant access to Archons, there is no reason to sequest her at the Waking Sands any longer. Truthfully, she could have departed moons ago, but Lyse had decided that A’aba made an excellent sparring partner and trainer, and had decided to extend her stay. Hahette and the others, she had argued, were much too busy to watch over her anyway.

Hahette had been disappointed, of course, but could hardly deny her protege the privilege of training with an adventurer legend like A’aba. That said, they were thrilled when word was sent that Lyse would be returning; so much so that the company’s pre-Calamity members immediately began setting up the party they wanted to have moons ago.

It isn’t just the adventurers, the children, Mhitra, and Yda waiting for Lyse. It is R’ashaht, Ava’s siblings, and the Resistance scout from Little Ala Mhigo, J’zhosmee, as well as several others from the refugee camp are invited to the party. Traveling with them from Vesper’s Bay is practically the entirety of the surviving Archons. A’aba had eagerly tagged along, hoping for a “real” party, and Minfilia too, had been convinced to join, mostly in a bid to get her out of the office for a time.

For that particular task, they had sent in Vochstein, who Minfilia can never deny.

Lyse is quite alarmed at the amount of people serving as her escort, and more than a little embarrassed. What she doesn’t know is that this is more than a welcoming party, and their end destination is not the free company house she remembers. To tell her would be to ruin the surprise, however, and all the Scions are under Mhitra’s strict direction to keep silent.

It is easy to keep Lyse from asking questions about her escort, as they must switch boats in Limsa Lominsa, and there is much to share about the slowly recovering port city. Talk of the city -and the lands surrounding it- takes up the entire trip to the Mist, and their conversations stops only because Lyse prematurely jumps off the ship and onto the brand new wooden pier with a cheer.

Sighing, she orders her excitable friend to _wait for them_.

“Why...is the house dark?” Lyse asks when they disembark, staring in the direction of their old home blankly.

Refraining from smiling, she pushes her friend towards the mansion closest to the docks. “Come along. You as well, Vochstein.”

“ _Are we not going home?_ ”

“Why does that mansion have our training dummies?!” she demands instantly.

My, she sure is slow on the uptake at times. Then again, they had made sure to never breathe a word of the move to Lyse. Mhitra had ordered them all into silence, and none dared disobey her. “There have been some changes. The mansion here now belongs to Hahette and the company.”

“We upgraded?! Since when!”

“Ava has taken over the old house, and we have taken the plot just here.” Stopping in the middle of the walkway, she gestures to the placard belonging to the house across from the mansion.

 _Hext-Rhul_ , it declares in blocky lettering.

“Oh, perfect timing you lot!” R’ashaht, who coincidentally happens to be exiting the mansion, loudly declares upon spotting them. The soldier is dressed in a simple two-piece red swimsuit covered by an oversized button-up shirt, and holding a large...plate of food? Typical. “Bring your food and booze. The first round is nearly done, and it’s first come first serve!”

She allows R’ashaht and Lyse some time to greet each other , promising a tour at a later date to the rest as she leads them to the section of beach their party has taken over. Not that they need to be lead anywhere. It’s impossible to mistake their group for any of the others. Theirs is the largest and loudest, with wild shouting from the children as they play their games, and wild shouting from the adults as they play _their_ games. They are welcomed into the fold with cheerful greetings and hasty introductions that end with A’aba and Thancred being forcefully drafted into a violent volleyball competition. There are far more people present than she had known were attending; stray Maelstrom soldiers they have worked with, some of their friendlier neighbors, and even the infamous Carl from Sharlayan.

“An excuse to celebrate was in order,” Mhitra says when they manage to locate her. “There are so few reasons to do so, in times such as these.”

The party is a strange mix of scholar and adventurer, of Scion and soldier, but they are fighters all, and provide any group with enough food and alcohol and they are certain to be agreeable. Lyse arrives with R’ashaht eventually, being eagerly greeted by her friends and family. She tries not think overly much of the length of time it took them to arrive, of how they remain close to each other, of how they smile at each other because they were once _lovers_ , not _mates_ , which is a critical distinction among Miqo’te.

Distractions are easy to find amongst their large, overly exuberant group, and she clings to them all until Vochstein makes his return. The foolish griffin has tired himself out playing with the children, and not even his insatiable curiosity can bring him to fly any longer. Sae locates her near dinner time and sheepishly hands him over, the both of them covered in sand and reeking of salt water. Vochstein has no objections to being given to her, curling into a ball in her lap as he mutters about the energy levels of children and how he needs to be stronger.

“You shall recover your former strength in due time, little one,” she reassures him affectionately.

Sae ducks his head and frowns. “I’m sorry. I forget that he can’t play as much anymore.”

She smiles. Saemundr is the more sensitive of the two refugee children that Yda and Lyse brought into their home years ago. Unlike his sister, he had been old enough to understand all that he had lost to the Empire by the time he came to Eorzea, but Yda and Mhitra had worked hard to ensure that he did not fall prey to anger and vengeance. It had been a difficult time for the family, as the initial peace of having crossed the border and finding a loving home wore off, the grief and trauma that the children had ignored finally rose to the surface.

Conversing with him as he recovers his own strength -and eats enough food to rival Lyse’s appetite- she notes how much the boy has changed. Other than the moons after the calamity when they believed Lyse dead, he has truly settled in and bloomed into his life. He stands tall with confidence instead of making himself small and unnoticable, and his eyes gleam with mischief rather than despair. His smiles are much like Yda’s; more often a smirk than a proper smile, but when he _truly_ smiles, it’s shyly eager.

How amusing it is that, for all that Sae gravitates toward Lyse, it is Yda he resembles the most. From his blunt way with words, his grumpiness when embarrassed, his hairstyle -short on the back and left, with a large portion of the rest swept to the right, bangs long enough to cover his eyes - to even his style of clothing.

It’s little wonder that Yda and him clash so often. He is, essentially, a younger, darker skinned and white haired version of her.

He leaves her after his food has digested and his energy is recovered. Curious about Raforta’s conspicuous absence -she, too, has been eagerly awaiting Vochstein’s return- she searches for the child, only to spot her dragging around Thubyrgeim, the children’s occasional babysitter and teacher. The woman is also unofficially in charge of the arcanist’s guild at the moment, an art that young Raforta has expressed much interest in of late. And one that their family has agreed will suit the calculating girl well, if she continues to study hard.

Gaze shifting away, she spots Mhitra deep in conversation with Carl and Hahette. Hahette is gesticulating wildly, as she often does when she is in the company of those she trusts. The other two are unimpressed, but Mhitra interrupts the company leader with a smirk, and whatever is said has Hahette instantly quiet and blushing.

Some things not even a calamity can change, it appears.

Examining the rest of the party, she spots then ignores Thancred attempting to charm a group of women. The volleyball competition has long ended, but now there is another sort of competition being waged between _far_ more people than are in their party. Ivoix and A’aba are deep in that mess, seemingly working with the refugees that Hahette employs. The flashes of magic and weaponskills are not encouraging in the least, but that is for someone _else_ to worry about.

Lyse, as expected, is with R'ashaht, Miheone, Ava, and Hinden. All veterans of Hahette’s company, she is certain that they have much to speak of. She is tempted to join them, having been all but officially part of the company back then, but Lyse chooses that moment to laugh and lean against R’ashaht, sharing a wide grin with her former partner.

She tears her gaze away. They’ve no need of her there.

Inevitably, the party has to wind down, but the moon is bright above them and she sees no sign of the end. Exhausted, with Vochstein long asleep, she sneaks home. There is a limit to her social energy, and she finds herself in desperate need of peace and quiet. After rinsing off the sand and salt remnants of the sea water she happily sinks into her new bed, asleep nearly before she can finish settling under the blanket.

The next morning, when she makes her way downstairs with Vochstein half-asleep in her arms, she finds that their main floor has been taken over by stragglers from the party. Mostly Scions, the group is scattered on the couch and the floor. Mhitra and the children are, thankfully, not among them, but Yda is using Ivoix as a pillow, and Lyse is sleeping comfortably against R’ashaht.

Looking away, she swallows through the lump in her throat.

“ _We have many guests, mother. Are those on the floor ill_? _They are not moving._ ”

She scoffs as she picks her way through the mess of bodies. “They’ve some manner of illness, to be sure. It’s called _idiocy_. Leave them be. We’ve a trip to the market to take.”

Vochstein perks up. Going to the market inevitably means he gets a present. “ _Toys_?! _And treats for mother_? _And Raf and Sae. And my aunts._ ”

“...Very well.”

“ _And our guests?_ ”

“No.” Goodness. Let it never be said that the griffin is selfish; he has fully inherited Lyse’s propensity for spoiling any and all creatures that stray into their orbit.

“Fresh Beach Blast, please.”

The soft request catches her off guard, so much so that she nearly trips over Thancred. Absently, she regrets that she does not. If anyone deserves a good, swift kick at any given moment, it is _that_ man.

She does not - _can not_ \- look back at Lyse, but she pauses at the door long enough to say, “As you wish, dearest.”

The term of endearment slips out without her meaning it to, though it was bound to happen eventually, given how often she _thinks_ of Lyse with such pet names. Mortified and praying that all others are indeed asleep, she exits the house and steps into the cool morning breeze. The pain in her chest is a peculiar thing; unwarranted and unwanted. It should not disturb her that Lyse is resting in another’s arms, because the only thing she wants is for Lyse to be alive and happy.

And yet here she stands, heart aching over the sight of Lyse with R’ashaht.

Her relationship with Lyse has always been different. They are family, but not sisters. Not the way Mhitra is to her, the way Yda is to her, however annoying she sometimes finds the woman. Without her being aware of it, never could she bring herself to classify Lyse as anything but _important_.

Not until two years ago. She had been sitting upon the fence of the company house, watching Lyse pout some fulms away over her diminished stamina. ‘ _Stubborn_ ,’ she had thought. Lyse had repeatedly been told that she had not recovered enough for prolonged physical training, but she had persisted regardless. Predictably, she could not complete a mid-level kata routine, and had flopped onto the grass with a huff.

She had chuckled at the display. Hearing her amusement, Lyse directed her pout to her, only to be distracted when Vochstein promptly hopped onto her stomach. Sitting there, watching Lyse complain to the griffin about fevers while holding him above her head, the word ‘ _mate_ ’ floated up from the depths of her mind.

Horrified, she had banished the thought, dragged it down to the depths it arose from and tried to pretend that it was a result of something base; lust, desire, those are far easier emotions to handle. Easier to _ignore_. She hadn’t planned on those waters to be less of an ocean and more a puddle, however, and the word refused to leave her mind.

It was there when she found herself at the receiving end of tactless propositions by disagreeable men and women.

It was there when she watched Lyse welcome R’ashaht - _lovers_ not _mates_ and the _difference matters_ \- home with a kiss.

It was there when Lyse pulled her into bed, her arms tight and protective around her.

It was there when the crystal around her neck shattered, and with it her world.

There was nothing quite like the emptiness of her soul in the moons following Dalamud’s descent. Lyse is her sun, her _life_ , and her loss had left her hollow, cold. She fought out of a distant desire to protect Eorzea from further suffering, she ate and drew breath only because Mhitra reminded her to, because the children needed to see her do so. She couldn't even find it in herself to be angry. Lyse had died well, died a hero, and, she had promised herself every morning, someday she would remember that with pride. Someday, when the pain faded to something _bearable_ instead of the all-consuming grief that she felt herself drowning in.

And then Thancred brought her back. She wasn’t yet out of danger, wasn’t even awake, but she was _alive_ and ‘ _mate_ ’ settled firmly in her heart. Whatever paths they will take in the future, whatever the gods throw at them, whatever Lyse’s own emotions, she resigned herself to the knowledge that she is irrevocably in love with Lyse Hext.

There is a special kind of hell reserved for those who are foolish enough to fall in love with their best friends, and, gods have mercy, she is very deeply mired in it.

Vochstein, heedless of her emotional turmoil, wriggles out of her grasp so that he may walk beside her through the Mist. He is not yet at full strength after his adventures at the party but his ever insatiable curiosity sees him eager to explore the yards along their path. “ _Why did we need a new home_?”

Oh, her griffin. His mental capacity grows by the day. She wonders what his limits are, how far he will evolve now that he has the spark that is a soul. Before Atomos, before Lyse and him both were infused with tainted aether, she could have said exactly where his limits would lie. Now, she can only guess at his potential; much as any normal parent, she supposes.

“Hahette was kind to let us stay, but her company is attracting many skilled adventurers that have need of a home. Your siblings require their own space as well. Soon they shall be too old to be sharing our beds,” she explains as they meander toward the market. They are in no hurry today. There are no missions to rush off to, and no primals threatening the continent for the time being. Her employer is...incapacitated, as are the other two who commonly make requests of her skills.

Times like these never last, and she intends to make the best of it.

“ _Mother! This creature is injured_!”

Slowing to a stop, she locates Vochstein, whose tail she can see sticking out from behind a row of bushes. The creature he has found is a ragged black cat, she discovers when she peeks over the shrubbery herself. It has a long cut across its stomach, but the wound isn’t terribly deep. Regardless, it will certainly bleed out if left alone.

“Give me space, little one. This will take but a moment.”

The healing takes little effort on her part. Once the deed is done, she cradles the animal in her arm and assures the worried griffin that it -he, actually- only needs sleep and a bath as they continue on to the market. “I see no collar, so I assume it is a stray.”

Vochstein hovers at her side, gaze intent upon the cat. “ _He does not have a home? We have a large new home. Can he not live with us_?”

Smiling, she shakes her head. Yes, Vochstein is far too much like Lyse in certain ways. “Even if the creature wanted to, we are rarely home enough to properly take care of him. That decision would best be left to Mhitra and the children.”

“ _Oh… Yes, we_ do _leave often._ ”

Ears twitching at the griffin’s resigned tone, she asks, “Do you dislike travel?”

“ _No!”_ he denies frantically. _“I enjoy it very much! Seeing new places is fun! Helping others. Protecting others. That is important as well, but I prefer it when you and Mother are together with me._ ”

Oh, Vochstein. He really is a child. _Their_ child. “...As do I, little one.”

She thinks of family dinners, how they all tease and laugh and share stories of the days. Thinks of evenings spent relaxing on the couch, Lyse warm at her side and Vochstein in her lap. Thinks of trips to the market, chasing after the eternally curious Vochstein, Lyse pulling her along and laughing at the griffin’s antics while she sighs. Thinks of the pleasure that is sleeping in Lyse’s arms, protected, loved -if not in the way she desires- and content. Thinks of peaceful mornings, when she can drink in the sight of her beloved as the sun rises.

The longing in her heart threatening to spill out in the form of tears, and she repeats herself softly. “As do I.”

Love, she decides for the umpteenth time, truly is a terrible state of being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it feels like it's been ages since we got into Y'shtola's head. I feel a little bad about leaving her out of the final chapter of the last story, but it was depressing enough. I felt that seeing her through Y'mhitra's eyes was good enough, as I sort of wanted to leave both her and Lyse's end ambiguous. 
> 
> The emotional chapters are over for the time being. Now we get to start building towards a future where more Scions are saved and things are -a little- better. Hopefully. That isn't to say the rest of our family is gonna get off easy. They're gonna have all kinds of fun.


	3. Y'mhitra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'mhitra has always been a bit...rash. She knows that, accepts it, and doesn't worry much about it because compared to the rest of her family, she's the tame one by far. ...So long as one ignores Hahette's rather consistent protests to the contrary.
> 
> She should have known it would catch up to her one day.

**1574**

“Shoo, Fang. You aren’t allowed to be up there.”

The cat gives her an offended look before he jumps off the dining table, several crystals falling with him, and saunters toward the couch.

“You do realize that this is not your home,” she calls out. Her ears catch the light scratching of the beast making itself comfortable on their couch, and she sighs. Fang, the cat that Vochstein and Shtola found a year ago, is a stray. Technically. He certainly comes and goes as he pleases, disappearing for days on end until they find him in the house, snatching their food or making a mess of the cushions. The only creature the cat respects is Vochstein, and the only human he deigns to obey is Lyse, in spite of the fact that he can most often be found curled up on Shtola’s pillow, or her blanket, or her clothes, or really anything at all that belongs to her sister.

Sadly, as tempting as it is to simply place wards around their yard, all three children love him. Love him. Spoil him. Treat him as family. And so he remains, free to terrorize their house, Hahette’s house, and Ava’s house, along with whatever poor family in the district has fallen into his spell.

Putting the matter of the troublesome cat aside, she picks up Vochstein’s fallen crystals with a sigh. Shtola discovered two moons ago that the griffin has a particular affinity for spell-breaking, and had immediately set herself to creating training toys for him. Vochtein had taken to the challenge eagerly, and his spelled crystals can now be found everywhere around the house. Thankfully, he usually remembers to keep in his toy basket, though their house is in such a constant state of messiness that a handful of crystals would hardly be noticed amongst the books and various training tools that seem to always migrate into the living room.

Idly inspecting the crystals, she senses that these particular puzzles have been completed. She’s impressed at the speed with which Vochstein is learning to undo spells, and she muses on the possible reasons for this strange affinity as she makes her lunch. Is it the result of the void taint in some way? Or perhaps because of a particular reaction between spells that Matoya had created him with? A mixture of both? Or it could be a talent that emerged because of his developing a soul?

It truly is a curiosity worth investigating.

“Y’mhitra! Just the person I was hoping to find. I’ve a proposition for you.” Hahette’s cackle at her surprised flinch and subsequent dropping of her sandwich settles into a self-satisfied grin. The infuriatingly light-footed Elezen is leaning her shoulder against the edge of the open kitchen window, arms crossed, and smirking at her.

If any person were in need of a definition of confidence, she would only give them a painting of that woman as she stands before her.

Thankfully, she has a method for undermining Hahette whenever she gets _too_ incorrigible; playing on the crush that the woman harbors for her. “I will _not_ pretend to be your fiance for a meeting with your parents. Can you simply not tell them that you have no interest in settling down?” she asks flatly, referencing the legitimate -if drunken- request that had been made a moon ago.

The change in the adventurer’s posture is immediate. “What? No! That wasn’t. I was. I thought we agreed to never mention that again!” Hahette stammers, cheeks red and gaze everywhere but her.

“And what exactly am I to expect when you come to my window speaking of _propositions_?”

Huffing, the Elezen frowns and says with a hint of petulance. “You’ve been spending altogether too much time with your sister.”

“Well,” she says, taken aback and slightly insulted. “That’s no way to speak to one whom you are asking a favor of. I am nothing like Shtola.”

The look she is given is one of sheer disbelief, but Hahette wisely decides not to press the issue. “At any rate, I wanted to request that you accompany me to Wineport. They believe their aetheryte is now stable, but our pet Archons have yet to return from their mission in Ul’dah in order to confirm that belief.”

It takes her no time to agree. The privilege of confirming a sign of hope is far more preferable to her usual missions for the Maelstrom. Though Eorzea has slowly started to recover from the after-effects of the Calamity as far as commerce and rebuilding are concerned, the same cannot be said for the aether of the land. It is why she decided to stay in Limsa Lominsa rather than join her colleagues in Mor Dhona. More phenomena than the Crystal Tower has been revealed in the wake of the Calamity -some of them just as friendly- and the Maelstrom is hard-pressed to find those with the proper knowledge to handle such disasters.

The Scions are, after all, few in number.

Within three bells, they arrive at their destination in the company of a curious Maelstrom soldier. Wineport is bustling with merchants and more than a few servants of nobles, all arguing over the prices of wine. Ignoring them, she heads straight to the aetheryte. Even from a distance she can tell that it has fully recovered from the Atomos attack. She may not have the level of sensitivity to aether that her sister does, but none can say she is unskilled.

Placing her hand on the aetheryte, she lets herself be partially drawn into the aetherial sea. A distant part of her mind, the part still rooted in reality, takes note of Hahette’s cursing and scolding. Entering the aetherial sea, or even poking a metaphorical toe in its waters, is a risky move, yes, but such things are necessary at times.

“On the surface, it appears recovered enough for travel, and it has nearly completely stabilized.” Her voice sounds muffled, or more accurately, echoes, with her mind existing in two realms. The aetherial sea pulls at her soul as she probes further, latching onto her aether and tempting her into its depths, but no. She must return. With greater effort than should be required, she breaks her connection to the aetheryte, and the world around her comes slowly into focus. “No good. I would advise against general travel for at _least_ another moon. The aetherytes are recovered enough to serve as beacons, but the network itself is not quite settled. Attempting to teleport now would be akin to sailing a skiff into a thunderstorm in open sea.”

The soldier salutes, cringing at her description. “Yes, my lady. Shall I pass on the report or will you be accompanying us back?”

“I-”

“-Will go on without me,” Hahette interrupts smoothly. “I have a mission further south.”

A mission? That explains why she decided to dress for battle. She had thought that it was merely for show; Hahette often claims that it is important to make certain impressions upon the people that request their services, even if the people in question are merely sending them a lowly private.

“...I thought the others were deployed?” she asks, fist tapping her cheek as she mentally pictures a list of adventurers that Hahette employs. Lyse she knows is out with Miheone and two other veteran company members, working with R’ashaht’s men to cull beasts in northern La Noscea. Ava and Hinden are leading a party of newer recruits, assisting the Arcanist’s Guild with an investigation for the next sennight. Trag and the rest of the company is supplementing some Scion operation in Ul’dah with Thancred and Wawakuma.

Hahette shrugs casually. “They are. A friend asked me to look into some beast rumors on the island. The Jackets and Maelstrom are too busy to deal with it themselves, right now.”

Her movements slow, then stop. “By yourself.”

The comment is many things, but what it _isn’t_ is a question, and her friend loses some of that cheer at the tone of her voice.

“I’m not a child. I know my limits,” she says stiffly. Though she projects calm, there is a hint of annoyance that her abilities are being questioned. Hahette Prusair is a leader of a successful free company -has been for years- and was a highly successful adventurer before then. Few who question her strength do so for long.

None of these things matter to her. Hahette is her _friend_ , one of her dearest friends, and she is free for the time being.

“There is no need for a formal report,” she says, dismissing the soldier. Crossing her arms, she gives Hahette a pointed look. “Lead the way, then.”

The immediate smugness that runs through her when her friend groans and shakes her head in resignation gives her pause.

‘ _By the twelve, I really am a Rhul, aren’t I_?’

The “beast” that the rumors concerned is nothing more than a larger than average coeurl within the heart of Raincatcher Gully. There are few occasions that allow her to work with Hahette, but during those rare times, there is a comforting fluidity in their partnership. Between the two of them, they dispatch it, and the ten strong pack that it led with relative ease. _Real_ trouble finds them before they make it out of the jungle, in the form of a much larger, much angrier goobbue than should rightfully exist.

Already tired from travel, and worn from fighting an entire pack of coeurls, they struggle to keep themselves intact, much less make a commendable effort to attack. It takes time, but they find a groove, adapt to its strikes. Her healing keeps them in the fight until Hahette takes its attention and she can fling spells. On the verge of slaying the beast, Hahette is readying herself to strike the final blow when it lets out a soundless wail.

Physically, they are pushed back. Mentally, her head feels adrift in a fog, her ears ringing as her vision fades and dances nauseatingly. The goobbue roars again, compounding her pain, and it charges away from her. Slowly her eyes trace its path to a similarily prone Hahette. She cannot scream, cannot run, cannot even summon a spell to distract the beast or shield her friend.

She can only stare, heart in her throat.

‘ _No!_ ’

Hahette’s sword glows, becomes steady in her vision as all else in the world blurs. The writing on it changes rapidly, never settling on a single symbol. Somehow, she can see them all imprinted in her mind, despite the sword being across the clearing.

A voice speaks.

_Shall I claim this one in your name?_

The sword waits. It has no concept of time, no emotion with which to care for the danger of the moment. She doesn’t understand what is being offered to her, but the sword has never hurt Hahette, and she can see the bond it has to its owner. So much potential in that bond, potential that has not been touched. Hahette is locked out, but _she_ is the key. She can change it. Change her.

 _‘Yes_. _Whatever it takes_. _’_

 _Then we are yours_.

She wakes up in bed. No cuts. No bruises. Some minor aches. They survived, though she doesn’t know how that happened, how she got home, or how much time has passed. What she does know is that it is currently far past sundown, that she has been changed into her bed clothes, and that Hahette is downstairs with the children, eating soup gingerly.

 _‘That...is an oddly specific piece of information to know_.’

Exhaustion weighs her bones and muscles down, chaining her to the bed, and she is content with laying there, drifting in and out of sleep. Her dreams are filled with battle, with death, with desperation, with tradition. With magic; dark magic and light magic, clashing, eradicating all in its path. When she is next fully conscious, it is daytime. Her body feels lighter, less pained, but there is a new presence in her mind. Curious as she is, she leaves it be for now. There are more important questions that need answering, and the only one who can answer them is.

...Is scowling at her paperwork, chin resting in her hand as she bounces her pen against the table. In her office. Next door.

Shaking her head, she changes into a presentable outfit, then rushes to the company house. Hahette is aware of her approach, and she _knows_ that Hahette is aware of her approach, and nothing is making sense but she has suspicions and she needs answers as much as she dreads them.

 _Whatever it takes_.

Famous last words, those are.

Hahette meets her downstairs, food and drink in hand. She holds the plate out toward her. “Eat. You’ve been asleep for two days.”

Taking the food numbly, she follows her friend into common room downstairs. With no others present, they have no need to retreat to the privacy of her office. The distraction of having food -something she only now realizes her body is very loudly demanding- settles her nerves somewhat. By the time she is done, she believes she can think rationally.

“My sword says we belong to you.”

Then again. She has been wrong before.

“I. What? Please explain.”

Hahette stares at her. She stares at Hahette.

“... _Can_ you explain?”

“Not at all!” Hahette declares with an exaggerated shrug. How carefree, nonchalant, and utterly _fake_ her attitude is. “It was you who activated my sword, and you who claimed us.”

The sword. She recalls it speaking to her, recalls her dreams, or the pieces of them that are left in her memory. Panic wells up inside her, and she has to force herself to examine the situation as she would any other research problem.

“Based on the evidence presented, the key to unlocking a Darklight weapon isn’t merely battle or leadership prowess, but also a contract of sorts with a user of white magic,” she starts. Her voice is shaking, her _limbs_ are shaking because gods does she have a bad feeling, but Hahette doesn’t point it out and she pretends that she doesn’t notice. “I feel as though that in particular is important, which, considering Amdapori history, isn’t terribly difficult to believe. We know that white mages held much power and influence during the War of the Magi. There must be some rule for who can activate the sword, however. I had a sense of importance and tradition, but without further knowledge, that hardly means anything to us.”

Uncharted territory. She has no idea what to expect, or what has happened to them, and the scholar in her is _thrilled_. Somehow, someway, they have unlocked the secret to a darklight weapon! At the small price of being bonded for all eternity to her friend.

The last gives her reason to pause. All of eternity? An odd thought to have, but it sounds...true. Certain. As if she has always known it to be so. Curious, she probes the bond between them. The sword may have forged the bond, but even without it present, it is bright and steady in her vision, weaving in and around them both. It isn’t just their lives, but their very _aether_ that is bound. To each other. To the sword.

“I...I do believe a visit to Gridania is in order.”

Typically, if a Sharlayan scholar seeks knowledge, they return to Sharlayan and make use of the many experts and precious tomes of the Studium. In their case, however, there are few who match the knowledge of the Amdapori civilization that Gridania’s conjurers and Seedseers have attained. Fewer still are those with enough talent in conjury to analyze the white magic-based nature of this bond.

Also, Sharlayan scholars love to gossip, and both Hahette and herself are well-known enough amongst certain influential circles that word of their predicament would spread through the entire island within a single night of their arrival.

It is fortunate that the company members all have work lined up for them at the moment, and that Hahette is not currently required for any meeting. Since the Calamity, the Maelstrom and Scions both have made constant requests of Hahette, her company being one of the few with veteran warriors that survived the great wyrm’s fury. And not only is Hahette flooded with work, but with _applications_. Adventuring has never been so popular a profession, with many people left without homes or families. New adventuring groups are forming every bell it seems; but they are also _slaughtered_ every bell. Eorzea has become a dangerous place, these last two years, and rare it is that an adventurer group survives long enough to collect their coin, much less spend it. The Guilds, noticing this trend, have started to strictly monitor those who wander into their halls, hoping to save as many as possible.

As such, the older, more established companies are, in essence, _kings_ among their own. They have the best missions, funds, facilities, equipment, and training opportunities due to their longstanding reputations within the beleaguered city-states. As the reputations of such companies grows with their newfound attention, so too does their need to _maintain_ said reputations. For Hahette -a woman prone toward socializing and networking- that means meeting after meeting with other company leaders, grand company leaders, and various other customers of repute, as well as creating an official name for her company.

_“Why not Defiant Blades or something simple like that? If we aren’t trying to be like the Company of Heroes, we want to have a slightly more humble name. Oh, but then they would call us blades, which is too much like brass blades so… What about Crimson Storm? We’re based in Vylbrand after all, and we all wear a lot of red for some reason. Why is that? Oh, but would we have to get some sort of uniform if we use a color in our name? Maybe-”_

_“Spirits Raging. It says everything it needs to without being overly pretentious. Let’s pray that it keeps the more arrogant merchants and nobles from requesting our services. Damn it all. I knew I should have picked a name in the beginning, but it hadn’t been necessary at the time.”_

After sending messages to their wayward family members concerning their situation and acquiring a caretaker for the children -a friend of theirs in the Arcanists’ Guild, Thubyrgeim Guldweitzwyn, is always happy to watch over the various children associated with the free company- they make their way to Gridania in search of an audience with the Council. The journey must be made on foot, for neither of them has the aether to teleport after their accident.

Most of the seafaring portion of the trip is spent testing their bond. There are no adverse effects immediately noticeable; in fact, their recovery appears to be accelerated. On land, they take their time traveling into Gridania, resting for a day -once they are sufficiently healed- to test what they can of the sword’s abilities. It would be most unprofessional of them to request help without the proper research performed beforehand.

The sword provides them with the most interesting results. The range of abilities that Hahette now has access to has increased three-fold. Not only are its previous properties of enhancement of white magic effects and protection against black magic strengthened to an almost absurd level, but it now seems to absorb a large portion of black magic-based spells, using the energy to charge itself for either a shield or a powerful selection of blasts. If Hahette does not want to discharge all the energy at once, she can convert it into a powerful spell that regenerates them both for a short time, or transfer the energy to _her_ via their bond.

Before now, she believed -just as many scholars- that the few descriptions of Amdapori generals that had been translated were hyperbolic in nature. Nigh immortal warriors feared by the Mhachi armies, they laid waste to advancing troops until sheer force of numbers alone forced them to withdraw. The more she watches Hahette, an already highly skilled warrior, instinctually adapting herself to the sword and its abilities, watches how the sword and warrior become one while dancing through forms, the more she believes in the power of the generals of old.

Sliding the sword back into its sheath, Hahette brushes her auburn bangs aside and wipes the sweat off her forehead. She is breathing heavily, unused to the toll of wielding her sword’s powers, but there is a smile on her face, a light in her eyes born from the thrill of their discoveries. “Well? What do you think?” she asks eagerly.

 _‘Beautiful_.’

The word catches on her tongue, and she nearly chokes with the effort of keeping it silent. Quickly covering her mouth with her hand, she closes her eyes and pretends she is considering the spells and swordwork, rather than how shockingly attractive she is just now realizing her friend is. Not that she wasn’t aware of it from the moment they met, but it had been a clinical observation, an amusing thought that she was flattered at someone so attractive having a crush on her. Yes, she once considered encouraging Hahette to act on her crush, and occasionally flirted with her in her more playful moods, but this is different.

This is something _so much worse_.

“You have adapted well to it,” she says after gathering her scattered thoughts. “I don’t believe we should experiment any further, however. Not yet. We don’t know how the bond affects your lifeforce.”

Hahette sighs, disappointed but understanding. “Slow it is. Much as I would like to train, I do rather enjoy living. It would be unfortunate, not to mention embarrassing, if I bled out my lifeforce trying to execute a weaponskill. Your sisters would never let me live it down.”

“Indeed,” she mutters dryly.

After a restless -on her part, for Hahette was asleep before she hit the bed- night at the local inn, they continue on to Gridania. They spend an inordinate amount of time discussing how to phrase their request, and their situation, and wondering if the elementals, capricious beings that they are, will expel them outright. Their discussion is for naught, however, for the moment they approach the gates, they are confronted by a soldier.

“Lady Y’mhitra, Company Leader Prusair. The Elder Seedseer wishes to speak with you.”

Exchanging a quick glance, they follow the soldier to the Lotus Stand without offering an argument. Concerned as they are about the escort, it saves them the trouble of requesting and scheduling a meeting; a process that can take upwards of half a moon. The entirety of the Seedseer council awaits them when they arrive, which does nothing to settle her somewhat frazzled nerves.

‘ _Oh, I have a feeling my sennight has only just begun_.’

Her instincts, as usual, are correct.

Elder Seedseer Kan-E-Senna smiles as she welcomes them. “Please, do not be alarmed. I believe we can help each other.”

The council, it turns out, has a request. One that they are now uniquely suited to handle, so the elementals have discerned.

Amdapor Keep. Long hidden ruins of the ancient civilization that helped usher in the Sixth Umbral Era. Guarded by the elementals until the Calamity wrought havoc upon Eorzea.

The Council needs it cleared.

They need more information about Amdapor.

“It goes without saying that we will share any information we have about the nature of your weapon, whether you take the mission or not. The elementals simply brought it to our attention that you may have reason to investigate the ruins once cleared,” E-Sumi-Yan assures them.

Fingers tapping against her cheek, she considers her options. “We will take the mission, of that there is no doubt.”

“Really now?” Hahette asks under her breath. She does not, however, offer further protest. Perhaps the company leader is unused to decisions being made without her input, but they truly have no other alternative in this situation.

“We will need more than the two of us, however, and the rest are otherwise occupied at the moment.”

A hand falls on her shoulder. “Stay and attend to the preliminary research. I'll gather backup and ensure the children are taken care of.” Hahette bows to the Council and excuses herself.

The Council does not appear alarmed or offended by the abrupt exit. If anything, the Elder Seedseer watches her leave with something that resembles pity.

She wishes she can say that it is unwarranted, but she need only close her eyes and she can _see_ Hahette, walking through Gridania with her confident stride. The bond between them never wavers, never diminishes due to distance.

It cannot be undone, and, considering how Hahette hasn’t reported noticing any unusual link to her aside from a heightened awareness of her presence, she has to wonder just what sort of power the bond gives her over her friend.

' _Twelve help me. What have I done?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know most people are here for Y'shtola and Lyse, and that's fine, but I do love Y'mhitra and Hahette. They've really changed from my original plan; Y'mhitra didn't have a personality, and Hahette was just a minor character who died offscreen in the first version. They've come a long way! :D 
> 
> Anyway this gets them the places they need to go, and the connections they need to help avert the future disasters the Scions will face.
> 
> And as always, if you have questions or are just curious about various headcanons I have for the story, I have a twitter handle at this same username! I'm totally open for DMs. There's lots of things that don't quite make it into the chapters, but I have tons of notes on.


	4. Hahette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic is kind of a bitch sometimes.

**1574 (2)**

Crazy cultists, possessed statues, giant winged voidsent creatures. Clearing out Amdapor Keep turns out to be quite an adventure, and multiple times throughout she praises herself for grabbing Lyse, Y’shtola, and Vochstein for the mission. Lyse needed a challenge to test how far her recovery has come, Y’shtola would have killed her if she dragged the kid here without her, Y’mhitra was pleased to have her sisters along, and when Y’mhitra is pleased, so too is the sword.

Not only were they able to examine first hand ancient ruins of the fabled Amdapori civilization, but Lyse had also claimed a sash imbued with functional protection runes -that she promptly turned into a scarf- and Vochstein had found spelled leather strips that, when wrapped around his legs, enhanced his wind magics. It worked out perfectly for all involved, so why isn’t she feeling more satisfied?

“So it needs a conjurer to work? That seems unnecessary. Why would they make it like that?” Lyse holds up the sword at eye-level and squints at it. They’re back at the inn in Gridania, recovering while the Council does whatever it is they need to cleanse the Keep. “It does look different though. More colorful and shiny. I think it likes Mhitra. Hmm. Maybe it always has? It never shocked her, back when you first met. Like owner like sword?”

She grunts, glaring at the kid and wondering if she can command the sword to shock _her_ right now. “Very funny.”

“Oh, right. Weird magical bond. ...Sorry.”

Shrugging helplessly, she drops onto her bed with a groan. It isn’t as though she _minds_ being bound with ancient magic to Y’mhitra Rhul. They’re good friends, practically family in all the ways that matter, and she trusts her with her life. That is a claim she can make of _very_ few people.

But she knows magic, and magic is never so simple. There is a price somewhere in this, something beyond the flashy abilities and the incredibly useful ability to summon her sword at will as if it were an aether weapon. Power like that just does not go without consequences. What is it that she has traded away in exchange for the sword’s power?

The object in question gives her no answer when she pokes at the bond. That figures.

“Y’mhitra shall remain here for some time to investigate the Keep. The Elder Seedseer has provided her with a place to stay,” she says tonelessly. A large part of her wants to stay, _needs_ to stay, but despite her years of study, her knowledge of Amdapor cannot compare to Y’mhitra’s, and she has a company to run.

Lyse holds the sword out. Waving her hand, she causes it to disappear back into her...soul, for lack of better word. Awed, Lyse leans back in her chair, crossing her arms and humming to herself as she thinks over the situation. “Did the Padjali have any information that could help?”

“Only that generals gifted with a Darklight, as they continue to call them, weapon have always been mentioned as belonging to certain mages, but they assumed the use of that specific term was due to military organization. They said that, in light of our situation, they will have to review their texts in a different context. They’re compiling a list of known abilities of various generals that they want me to test, but aside from that, I must wait for the results of Y’mhitra’s research. So, for me, it’s business as usual.”

Business as usual, she says, as if her _usual_ business isn’t time and life consuming.

As a well-established and well-known company leader, she has very little energy to devote to anything that isn’t meetings across Vylbrand and Ul’dah, training with her people, dealing with recruit applications, and general paperwork related to house ownership and various permits. She is in the midst of negotiating over the price of a building on Vesper’s Bay as well; her company has grown so much that Miheone coerced her into buying property on the mainland. At twenty-five people strong -and only in permanent members at that- she needs the extra housing anyway, but getting anything done with Lalafellin merchants takes a hefty amount of patience, threats, and gil.

Mostly threats in her case; Hahette Prusair is no doe-eyed fool willing to give those damn merchants a gil more than the building is worth, and her company uses up the a good ninety-five percent of her patience on a good day.

Politics takes the rest.

Trouble aside, the secondary office promises to be useful for far more than extra housing. With the amount of work they get from Aldynn’s Flames and the Scions, as well as more prominent merchants in Ul’dah, having Miheone take the lead for mainland requests will ease much of her burden.

She not-so-idly considers Lyse for the post, but as much as she knows the kid will do well, she eventually acknowledges that her protege won’t thrive in that position. Not yet. The kid is still too young, still drawn to travel and field missions. Lyse is also key in helping train and tutor the many Ala Mhigan refugees she now drafts into her company. Though most of those contracts are temporary -training them to balance accounts, run businesses, or help them discover and nurture any talents before she finds them proper work out in the world that does its best to deny them- many of those bent to warrior talents express interest in staying.

They want to train, want to earn their strength with a respected supporter of Little Ala Mhigo, so that they will be ready to assist the Resistance. Their inner fire and determination is admirable, but the only thing that matches the Mhigans stubborness is their fear of Lyse and Yda.

In other words, she mostly decides to keep Lyse a field operative because she needs the kid free to keep her fellow refugees -and the new unit that she is currently leading- in line. Few things are as amusing as watching a troublesome Mhigan abruptly become quiet and respectful when her ever-cheerful protege wanders into the same room.

While she spends most of her time running her company, she manages to work in short trips to Gridania every other sennight to check on the council and Y’mhitra. The research progresses on all fronts but the one she needs it to, but she is too occupied with slowly discovering what specialty her sword grants her to notice. The more she uses her weapon, the more she perfects her skills, the stronger her bond with it grows.

It’s almost unsettling, how much a part of her the weapon is becoming. Or is it the other way around? There is a disturbing lack of emotion that overcomes her in the midst of battle, all but the strongest emotions muted when she draws on the weapon’s power, and she begins to wonder if this is the beginning of the as-of-yet unknown price of power.

And through it all, her awareness of Y’mhitra’s location becomes unnervingly _constant_. The conjurer’s very existence is nearly a living thing in the back of her mind at every moment, taking her attention whenever her mind slips.

It’s a relief when they get news that Amdapor City itself is unlocked by the elementals, and that they have need of their group once again. Gathering up Lyse and Y’shtola, she eagerly leads them back to the Shroud.

Only to nearly die in their efforts to clear out the ruins because there is a literal voidsent king called Diabolos that tries to drag them into the Void, cursing white mages and their pet generals throughout the fight. Clearly he had more than a few issues with Amdapor’s white mages of the past, which lent an extra edge of viciousness to his attacks. But they remarkably pull through unscathed -aside from the emotional and mental trauma of facing an incarnation of terror and evil- the Seedseers commenting on the abilities that make them uniquely suited to handle voidsent problems. Lyse and Vochstein were hardly fazed by the demon’s aether, immunity granted to them by their tainted aether. The Rhul sisters are wielders of white magic, and she holds a weapon designed solely for the purpose of combating voidsent and black magic.

The venture was well worth the rewards, however. They were paid quite well indeed, found an entire library with salvageable books, and they were allowed to take intact gear found in extra rooms. Lyse salvages several pairs of earrings that Y’shtola point blank refuses to consider wearing, until Vochstein excitedly comments that he would _love_ for his mothers to have ear decorations matching his own.

Y’shtola grudgingly takes the blue pair, remarks that they will make acceptable replacements for their old crystals, and speaks no more on the matter.

Personally, she comes out of the mission with a greater distaste for voidsent, a new chest piece that matches the coloring of her greatsword, and a sneaking suspicion that Y’mhitra is uncomfortable with her presence.

The last occupies her mind as they recover and heal within the safety of Gridania. There’s something in the way her friend refuses to meet her gaze on, in the way her smiles have no heart and her body language screams “please leave.” It is so obvious that even Lyse notices, and they both are at a loss as to the cause. Never before has her ever-confident friend been so dismissive of her. She has nearly made up her mind to speak to Y’mhitra about it after two days of brief and awkward interactions when the Council sends for them again.

Their second foray into Amdapor City is free of voidsent, but the stone guardians that have somehow come to life are no less challenging a foe. In fact, in this fight, they must rely solely on their skills, brute strength, and creativity to survive, for all the traits that gave them an advantage against Diablos put them at a _disadvantage_ when facing the stone guardian.

“You _are_ allowed to give yourself time to rest, I hope you’re aware.”

Y’mhitra doesn’t so much as twitch her ears. She can’t say if her friend is ignoring her, or if she is utterly distracted by the runes visible on the defeated guardian. While her hope is the latter, her observations are leaning towards the former. Sighing, she shakes her head and puts her hand on her hip. With Lyse and Y’shtola otherwise occupied in one of the other rooms investigating runes -squabbling like an old married couple and flirting like newlyweds despite being neither- decides to press her luck and confront her longtime friend.

“So? What have you discovered about the bond that makes you incapable of looking at or speaking to me?”

There is no response, but Y’mhitra’s ears and tail lower. So she is correct about the reasoning behind the sudden avoidance. Gods, she hates being right at times.

“Is it that we will always be aware of each other, as a spectre haunting us at the corner of our eyes? Or the fact that the sword will likely absorb my soul upon my death? Or perhaps something else?” She steps closer with every word, until she stands behind the crouching Y’mhitra. There won’t be any avoiding of this topic, not if she has any say in the matter.

Without standing, or looking at her, Y’mhitra says, “The generals _belonged_ to their bonded mages. There are many stipulations that come with the bond, with much of the power resting in the mage’s hands. For example.” Standing with a resigned sigh, she faces her. There is a bright glow in her eyes as she calls upon her magic. “Step _back_.”

Her body takes a step back. The glow in Y’mhitra’s eyes does not fade, and she takes another. There, it stops, and when the glow fades her mind is free to reconnect with her body.

“...Oh,” she whispers, heart pounding and hands trembling as the implications of what just happened race through her mind.

“It takes a great deal of energy to give even that simple order, so I am at a loss as to the purpose of including such an ability in the bond. It was noted that bonded generals are able to resist those orders. I assume it merely takes some practice. It had to have been an unintentional side-effect of some other power.” Y’mhitra sighs again. Her tone had been distant and clinical, but the shame that burdens her soul is nearly a physical weight, for as ponderously as she stands. “Slightly more troubling, however, is the fact that I can _see_ you and your immediate surroundings at any given moment. I’ve had marginal success in controlling _that_ particular side-effect, at least.”

“Ah.” Still reeling from the fact that Y’mhitra _literally owns her_ , she can hardly react to the rather gross invasion of privacy that is revealed. It makes her feel a little better that the conjurer is even more dismayed by the situation than she is. A little. “So you have been...unintentionally watching my every move since _that_ day.”

Y’mhitra freezes and looks to the side, a blush rising to her cheeks.

Wait. Oh. Oh, gods have mercy. Dread settles in her stomach, but she has to ask, voice high-pitched and strangled. “How little control did you have over it?!”

“I, ah. I no longer see you _every_ moment my eyes are shut,” Y’mhitra says weakly.

Vividly recalling all her nights with her various lovers over the last two moons, she buries her face in her hands with a whimper. How much has Y’mhitra seen? Does she even want to know? This is _beyond_ horrifying. She has spent _years_ never discussing the particulars of her sex life with her friend due to the persistent crush she has on the woman, and now _this_?

The threat of being stripped of her free will, she can handle. Y’mhitra is a paragon of virtue; she would never use that power against her, and she doesn’t seem to be able to use it very effectively to boot.

Y’mhitra being forced to watch her have sex is an entirely different, far more concerning matter.

“Why did you not say! I would have! That!” Her words are sputtered incoherently, but she cannot calm herself enough to speak clearly.

“I didn’t want this to affect your life! I thought it would be easier to control!”

“Didn’t want- A simple discussion would have spared us both this pain!”

“It isn’t as though I _expected_ to have a first-hand view at your trysts!”

“Didn’t expect. As if you are unaware of my history?!”

Needless to say, she eagerly returns to Vylbrand once the seedseers arrive, desperate to put as much land and sea between her and Y’mhitra Rhul as physically possible. She spends the next three moons avoiding anything to do with Gridania, magical swords, and Y’mhitra. Out of spite, she attempts to continue to meeting with her lovers, but guilt overtakes her after the second time, and she is left to rely on physical training to settle her nerves and burn her energy.

Their new recruits are quick to learn when it is necessary to avoid their leader. As in, by the time Miheone asks who wants to transfer to their new office, there are _many_ volunteers for the move.

 _“That is_ enough _! I don’t care how you do it, but you had best correct your attitude! I refuse to deal with your petulance a moment longer!”_

Y’shtola, predictably, is the one to snap first, irritated by her increasingly sulky mood. As much as she hates being scolded, she fully admits that it was deserved; taking out her frustration on poor Vochstein, who was only trying to cheer her up, was a profoundly shameful display.

Pacing in her room, she turns her attention to the bond that is the cause of all this trouble. It remains bright in her mind, unaffected by distance and her attempted neglect, but it also _pulls_ at her. It is a feeling that she has been resolutely ignoring as it grew over the last two moons. The moment it has her attention, however, it latches onto her and she is overcome with the familiar sensation of teleportation.

When the world comes into focus, she is greeted by a startled curse and the sight of wooden walls. Outside the window before her is a forest. A familiar _Gridanian_ forest.

“Hahette? How did you? _Why_ did you?” Y’mhitra is sitting on her bed, visibly torn between curiosity and anger at the intrusion.

“Huh. That is a handy ability,” she murmurs absently, taking in her surroundings with blank interest. The room is clearly the one provided to her friend for her stay in Gridania. There are books piled on the table -all in foreign languages- and two spread out and open on the bed next to Y’mhitra.

“...So it wasn’t a purposeful act. I suppose we can add that to our list of newly discovered abilities. It isn’t so surprising that...”

While Y’mhitra rambles about the bond, she silently notes how the tension eases from her body in the presence of her bonded; as if her very soul is being recharged with the proximity of its owner. Yet another side-effect of the bond, it seems, and one that partially explains her previous irritable attitude. Not excuses, mind you, only explains it. These last moons are the longest they have been separated since this whole incident, the bond clearly requires that they spend time in close proximity.

Y’mhitra, she notes, had clearly intended to sleep soon; she is in her bed clothes and her hair is loose. The half-open button up shirt has slipped off one of her friend’s shoulder, making the lack of underclothes quite obvious. Entranced by the intimacy of Y’mhitra’s present state, she can do nothing but watch as the still rambling scholar turns her attention to the books on her bed, sharing more information on Amdapor that she has discovered since her last visit.

Actually, that bed is incredibly tempting. When had she last slept peacefully, content with her life and unburdened by the bond that she was forced into? With all the stress she has been under lately, she deserves a good rest.

“Given our new knowledge, we have had to return to all previously translated works, taking special note of connotations. That’s the problem with-what are you doing?”

Shrugging off her jacket, she says, “Readying myself for sleep? It’s late, that teleportation exhausted me, and I’m severely overdressed.”

“Over-” Y’mhitra cuts herself and looks down at herself, truly realizing her state of dress for the first time. The blush that rises to her cheeks is expected, but not the way she stumbles over her words. “Sleep. Right, yes. Ah. With me, you mean?”

“There isn’t anyone _else_ present, is there? Neither do I have any coin for my own room. Clearly.”

Initially she is certain that the issues with the bond and the ungodly lack of privacy she now lives with are behind the odd shyness of the normally outgoing -pushy- Miqo’te. And then Y’mhitra’s muttered “of course” piques her attention, as does the way her eyes linger when she removes her shirt, and the way she immediately turns around, blushing. There are many possible explanations for that reaction, but her mind can only focus on one in particular.

Gathering every onze of courage she possesses, she walks up to her friend, her bonded, places a hand on her waist, and leans down to purr in her ear, “Do I make you nervous, Y’mhitra?”

Y’mhitra’s physical response is immediate; her ears immediately point to the ceiling, her tail stiffens, and her breathing falters. She recovers quickly, whirling around with her face set in a glare and ready to argue but it doesn’t matter because any answer but “yes” is a _godsdamned_ _lie_ and they both know it. Having already made her own decision, she wraps her arm around Y’mhitra’s waist as she turns and pulls her in for a deep kiss.

That carefully observed line between friendship and _more_ breaks with the kiss, then shatters altogether when Y’mhitra wraps her arms around her neck after a moment’s hesitation, leaning into her eagerly. All thoughts of Amdapor, of research, of bonds, of the problems that drove them apart for moons are forgotten as she loses herself in learning how to please Y’mhitra, savors the pants, moans, and whimpers that her attentions draw, lets herself be directed to ‘ _bite here_ ’ and ‘ _touch here_ ’ and ‘ _feel free to pin my hands as I know you enjoy_ ,’ until her bonded is arching against her and begging for her to quit her damned teasing already.

And then it is _her_ turn to be pleasured, Y’mhitra straddling her with a smirk that startles her as much as it turns her on.

“Did you truly believe your teasing would go without consequence?” she purrs.

The rush of desire at those words briefly incapacitates her, but, never one to let a challenge go unanswered, she hides it as best she can. Opening her mouth to reply, her words come out as a gasp when Y’mhitra’s tail brushes against the inside of her thigh, achingly close to her center.

She has lost before she was even allowed to start, but she can’t find it in herself to care once Y’mhitra proves herself to be a very, _very_ good tease.

The sky outside their window is light grey by the time she dozes off. Their problems aren’t solved, and they haven’t done nearly the amount of talking that they really need to, but with Y’mhitra in her arms, with her bond warm and content, she is confident that their situation will work out in the future.

After all, she has never been one to give up, no matter the odds. And the odds of Y’mhitra allowing her to be her mate? Pretty damn good.

Two sennights later, while Y’mhitra is back for a moon, her first and last attempt to “propose” is an unmitigated disaster. All because Miheone, the damned woman, overhears, then proceeds to tear through the house shouting at the top of her lungs that people need to pay up their bets. She is horrified on every level humanly possible as she is congratulated and cursed by turn -” _It’s about damned time!”_ and ” _Fucking hell, couldn’t you have waited another three moons?_ ”- despite never having received an answer from a cringing Y’mhitra. Lyse, the traitor, loudly debates with Ava whether or not she is allowed to have a shovel talk in this situation, and Y’shtola’s subtle glare promises that she will get one regardless.

After half a bell of enduring their teasing, she retreats to her room before she decides to save herself the trouble and simply _murder them all_. Flopping onto her bed, she stares at the ceiling and debates how much trouble she would be in if she did, in fact, kill her subordinates. She isn’t pouting, damn it all, she _isn’t_.

It’s just. She had spent two sennights working up the nerve to ask. Why couldn’t Miheone have waited until she had an answer at the least before she went and announced her intentions to the whole damned district? Why is she here anyway? She’s supposed to be in Vesper’s Bay with the new minions and their new office, keeping everyone in line, flirting with Ivoix, and attempting to flirt with Minfilia.

The door to her room opens, but she doesn’t flinch because she knows it’s Y’mhitra.

“Pouting is unbecoming of an established company leader,” her maybe mate scoffs.

“...I am not,” she. Well. She pouts.

Y’mhitra’s condescending murmur of, “Oh really,” does nothing to soothe her bruised ego.

Her negative emotions fade when her lover crawls on top of her with a content sigh, mouth automatically seeking her neck. She hums through the sharp bite she is given, then freezes at the nigh imperceptible sensation of aether settling in the wound.

“It does seem rather...superfluous to _mark_ you as my mate, considering the bond we already share, but it would be remiss of me not to reassure you that you will _always_ be my first choice.”

Oh. _Oh_. They’re. They’re really _mates_. Just like that. It’s actually underwhelming, considering the amount of teasing she had to endure just now, but her lover’s hands tug at her shirt and her lips cover her own and any coherent thought at all is soon lost.

Much later, she finds out that _Lyse_ of all people won a small fortune from the betting pool, and she vows to give the kid _the worst training session of her life_ the next time Mhitra and Y’shtola are far, far away from Vylbrand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. OC land. She gets shit done, however, so I admire her for that. And what she does is important! We're getting close to the ARR era, and there's a lot to setup before we get there.


	5. Yda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yda can count on one hand the amount of people who can catch her off guard, and fewer who intimidate her.
> 
> The cute Resistance medic Commander Kemp sends her way somehow manages to do both.

**1575**

Little Ala Mhigo, just over three years after the Calamity, cannot be called anything more than a collection of tents, but compared to the squalor that the refugees had lived in before, she can say with pride that the village has cleaned up. Gundobald, Lyse, and her had worked hard -supported by Hahette’s company, her connections through Minfilia, and Raubahn’s ownership of the Coliseum- to markedly improve the health and standing of the refugees. The water is clean, sickness no longer seeps from the very stones, the tents are made of sturdy, bright material, and every person has clean clothes, blankets, and beds.

None of this had happened without some resistance, of course. The children of Rhalgr are a stubborn breed with a frustrating habit of tunnel vision, and, in this case, anything that didn’t involve killing imperials was unnecessary, a waste of time, and a betrayal of their homeland. It was understandable, of course. None of the city-states would take them, and they felt abandoned by Eorzea. The anger, the hatred, the passion to free their home, she understood it better than most, and certainly more than those snot-nosed _brats_ that were the village youth.

She put up with it for one moon after the nearly disastrous trip across the wall -which she considers gracious of her- and then dragged every last mouthy man and woman into the desert and had Lyse pound them all into the dirt.

There was very little resistance after that day, and her belligerent countrymen resigned themselves to being sent all over Eorzea in order to train, to learn, to support their gods-damned families like they _should have always done_. A task made easier -as morbid as it is- by the Calamity, and the subsequent need for physical labor to rebuild Eorzea.

It isn’t anything grand and world-changing like leading the Resistance and toppling kings, but it’s important work, and it gives her a sense of satisfaction that she rarely found during the years when she fought nonstop, drawing on her rage to get her through every mission.

“Yda! You just missed morning training! How unfortunate.”

The younger warriors following Gundobald give him a horrified look behind his back, backing away subtly. The only person they fear more than herself is Lyse, and the leader of Ala Mhigo takes great joy in playing on that fear to keep the younger fighters in line.

“Eh. I’m here for Orella anyway.” Waving to the group, she heads into the larger cavern where her charge has taken up residence.

Orella Rushton, a Resistance medic, had originally been assigned to one of the smaller cells near Ala Ghana, but an information leak saw her unit’s post ambushed by imperials. Escaping with another injured soldier, they made it to Rhalgr’s Reach; home of the largest Resistance cell in Gyr Abania. It had been perfect timing, in a macabre sense. The Reach had run low on medicinal items, and a group was preparing to cross the wall to pick up the supplies that Little Ala Mhigo saves for them.

Being an expert in flora and potions, Orella had been asked to accompany the group by Commander Kemp. They needed someone in Eorzea to begin researching an effective potion that utilizes smuggled Eorzean and Gyr Abanian ingredients, and she was perfectly qualified. As such, they needed someone to guide their physician through Eorzean lands, and she, being a distinguished, well-traveled Archon, was requested to do so. Though somewhat skeptical about the mission, she has heard good things about Kemp, and decided to trust his judgement.

It hasn’t turned out to be the ordinary mission that she expected.

“Welcome back, Yda. Is this a business visit or a personal one?” Orella asks. Her attention is focused on her potion-making, but not so fully as to have missed a loitering Archon.

“Ah, business.”

Orella flashes her a smirk. “Pity.”

Feeling herself flush, she coughs and curses the younger woman’s self-confident attitude that really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is considering how many equally self-confident women she is acquainted with. Then again, she typically doesn’t go around having sex with said women -or any women- which already puts Orella in her own category.

_“Sex is just nerves and stimulation, Yda, and your body clearly desires some stimulation.”_

She doesn’t want to say there was an instant attraction, but apparently it’s something that runs in the family. -And gods, look how _those_ crushes turned out-

“How do you feel about making a trip to Vylbrand?” she asks after shaking her memories of last sennight away and pulling herself together. “The species of mugwort out there may be worth looking into. I have it on good authority that it is versatile _and_ hardy.”

“Oh? Just give me half a bell to clear my mess and pack.”

The beginning of the trip is awkward on her end, but Orella slips into business mode, questioning her on the particulars of mugwort. The conversation shifts to La Noscea in general, and she feels herself relax as they speak of things she is confident in her knowledge of. She is no medic or potioneer, but she has plenty of tales to tell; tales of Sharlayan, of the Scions, and of Eorzea.

The sun is setting on the horizon when they arrive in the Mist. Staring out from the dock, Orella takes time to appreciate the fiery sky over the sea. It’s a sight she never tires of herself. The beaches of Vylbrand aren’t the mountains of Ala Mhigo -rugged and challenging just as the people it breeds- but it is home nonetheless, and she’s grown to love the area since she moved.

“It’s so peaceful here. You’d almost think there’s nothing wrong in the world.”

Glancing behind them, she watches Miheone -probably here for her bi-weekly report- bolt out of the mansion. In her hands is a large crate of what experience tells her is alcohol.

“Hah! Just give it a minute.”

Orella turns around to follow her gaze, cautiously curious.

“MIHEONE YOU DIRTY CHEAT! DON’T THINK YOU CAN RUN!”

A pack of half-dressed adventurers stampede out of the mansion and into the streets beyond, splitting up in search of the renegade woman. Six children -Saemundur and his ever present shadow, R’ashaht’s adopted brother R’lhinah, included- are hot on their tail, cheering the adults on and chanting “Hunt! Hunt! Hunt!”

“....Friends of yours?”

Snorting, she leads them along the short path to the house. Biolan, one of their recruits from Little Ala Mhigo, saunters out of the mansion when they’re closer to the gates, unaffected by whatever nonsense the others have gotten into. It’s a far cry from his first moons at the mansion, when he was half-ready to bolt at any loud noise and kept his eyes more on the wooden flooring than anywhere else. There had been a betting pool on how long it would take for him to faint.

Hinden had won, with a bet of eight days.

“Hey Archon Hext! Your kid just ran off,” he says, snickering.

She shrugs. “Yeah, I saw him. I don’t want to get involved in...whatever that was. Do you know if-”

A sense honed over the last thirteen years worth of experience triggers, and she spins around to catch her assailant mid-air.

“Nevermind, she’s home. Nice try, little brat,” she grumbles.

Vochstein whistles, ears drooping in disappointment. He has been determined to catch her by surprise lately, sneaking up on her at any given moment when she is home. She’s entirely certain his sudden interest in harassing her at all times is due entirely to Y’shtola’s less than pure influence, but Lyse thinks it’s hilarious, and now Sae has begun to try his own luck against her as well.

“You’ll get there someday, I’m sure,” she assures him as she hugs him tightly. “For now, greet our guest properly. This is Orella. She’ll be staying with us for the night.”

By the time they make it to the door, Vochstein is purring with pride over being complimented on his “excellent fashion sense,” and has probably decided that Orella is one of his new favorite people. Not that the griffin doesn’t like just about _anyone_ his family associates with. He is an affectionate, cheerful creature, if a bit vain.

He has more scarves than she does shirts -or nearly as many scarves as Y’shtola has pairs of boots- for Rhalgr’s sake.

“I didn’t know you were coming home today! We haven’t had dinner yet so don’t worry about making anything and _no,_ Vochstein. You can’t play with her knife. Just because it’s shiny doesn’t mean it’s a toy.”

Normally she would tease the child about his curiosity, or at the very least greet her sister, but the sight before her shocks her into silence, memories best left forgotten rushing to her mind and being pushed away just as quickly.

“Uh.” She clears her throat and resists the urge to run to her sister’s side. “What happened to _you_?”

Lyse scowls. Her sister is wrapped up in bandages to the point that she can be mistaken for a mummy, though there are no signs of blood. Whatever her injuries, they aren’t severe, as evidenced when she stretches and shakes her head. “I fell into some plants that made me itchy. Shtola made me some lotion to cure it, which is what that smell is by the way. The bandages are just to keep from getting it all over the place. It’s _so_ gross.”

Relaxing with a deep sigh, she cannot help but laugh at her sister’s misfortune as Vochstein eagerly flies to his mother’s side. With the explanation give, she introduces Orella. Lyse is immediately interested, questioning her -and translating for Vochstein, who has questions of his own- until she is allowed to bathe. Her eagerness to rid herself of the lotion trumps her curiosity, and she is gone in a flash.

Slowly, the rest of her family appears. Y’shtola and Mhitra come upstairs from their library, arguing over translations of the Amdapor texts that the Seedseer’s Council has let them copy. Raforta returns from her extra lessons with Thubyrgeim, instantly latching onto them and ranting about how she is _definitely_ going to be an arcanist someday and isn’t math _so interesting_ and her carbuncle will be the best and strongest carbuncle ever. Sae and R’lhinah stumble in at some point, only for Sae to drag her and Lyse outside for a demonstration of his progress with channeling chakra into his fists. The boy isn’t a prodigy, but he isn’t unskilled, and he has an entire free company willing to help him train when his family isn’t around; which, she admits, is more often than she cares for.

Finding a good balance between her work and her family has always been her greatest struggle.

Their home is lively, and loud, just as it always is during those rare times when their family is together. Hahette makes an appearance after dinner, arms full with snacks that her ‘idiot adventurers no longer deserve’ and yet another new scarf from Thavnair for Vochstein. Their small party is infused with even more life with the new addition, and only when the children begin to doze off do they reluctantly call it a night.

“Sorry about overwhelming you like that. It’s been over two moons since we were all home at the same time,” she says after leading Orella to her room. “We try to take advantage of it when it happens.”

Orella smiles at her. “You shouldn’t apologize for enjoying your time with your family. Rhalgr knows that few enough people think to do so. Not until it’s too late.”

“...And I used to be one of them.” Shaking her head, she pulls her pajamas out of her drawer and says, “Anyway, there’s no rush tomorrow, so sleep in as long as you want. There’s a sound-proof spell on our doors, so long as they’re closed. You won’t be bothered by any of us running around.”

“You’re leaving? This is _your_ room.”

“And you’re my guest?”

They stare at each other, Orella with her arms crossed and her clutching her pajamas nervously -while hating herself for feeling that way- waiting for someone to cave first.

She does, because she is tired and really just wants to sleep. “It’s fine, I promise. There have been plenty of nights where I didn’t want to bother with walking upstairs. The couch is my second bed.”

Her reasoning is sound, and Orella can’t argue with her.

Yet.

Yet there is something in the way the physician sighs, the way her posture is suddenly less confident and more resigned, the way her gaze is heavy on her back as she walks out. No one has ever claimed her to be the best with emotions, and she is well aware that she is, at times, unintentionally callous when dealing with others, but she isn’t _emotionless_. And, well, trauma is something she is closely acquainted with.

Staring down at the couch, she sighs, then glances back upstairs. There’s no reason to worry about Orella. She’s safe, and will likely fall asleep easily. They aren’t really even friends. Does she have any _right_ to be barging up there offering comfort?

But she wanted her to stay.

But was she expecting something _more_ than sleep? She couldn’t have been, right?

No. She’s certain that comfort is what Orella wants. There’s nothing wrong with that. The only thing wrong with this situation is the look that was on Orella’s face. Someone so confident shouldn’t look so....timid.

Cursing herself for a fool, she changes in record time, grabs the extra pillow on the couch, and trudges her way back upstairs. Light shines from underneath her door, and she wonders if her guest still changing, or if the darkness holds too many memories for comfort.

“You’re back.” Orella’s voice is tired and unsure. She hasn’t even gotten into bed properly, laying on top of the blankets with her hands underneath her head. Thankfully -or not, she is undecided- she has changed into more comfortable clothes to sleep in.

“All you had to say was, “Please stay.” There isn’t a single person in this house who doesn’t have nightmares, including Vochstein.” It isn’t the nicest way to declare her intention to comfort someone, but Orella has a small, relieved smile that makes her feel proud of her decision.

There’s a bit of awkwardness, as she isn’t used to sharing her bed anymore, and she isn’t the most affectionate person, and she has only known Orella for two sennights at most. Once Orella settles in her arms, however, she finds that she rather enjoys having someone to hold. From the way the chirurgeon melts against her, she suspects that it has been far too many years since she was offered -or allowed herself to take- this level of comfort.

They wake only because _someone_ lets Vochstein into her room. The griffin glides across the room, lands on her bed gently, then whistles into her ear as loudly as he is capable of. There is a flurry of curses and feathers as she attempts to capture him, but in her half-conscious state all she achieves is rolling out of Orella’s arms and onto the floor with a painful thud.

“Y’SHTOLA!” she snarls, voice echoing through the hallway and -hopefully- downstairs where the culprit is most likely enjoying a good laugh.

Orella greets Vochstein with a tired compliment while she grumbles into the carpet about stubborn, ill-mannered Miqo'te conjurers.

“Are you going to lay there and pout or come back to bed?”

She growls.

“Vochstein can keep me company then.”

It takes some time for her to gather the energy to move. Slowly pulling herself to her feet, she observes how her spot has indeed been taken by the fluffy brat. Feeling her stomach grumble, she shrugs and decides to head downstairs. There’s no point in going back to sleep, if it’s as late in the morning as she suspects it is.

“Exciting morning, is it not?” Mhitra asks, laughing when she sits at the table and drops her head on it.

“She _will_ pay for that.”

Mhitra hums condescendingly, but lets her mope while she prepares some food. Mornings have never been a friend to the Hext family. She may have been forced to adapt to random sleeping schedules for the Circle, the Resistance, and now the Scions, but when she is home she refuses to do anything until she has been awake for a bell or two. Sometimes three, depending on how annoying the mission she had returned from had been.

Lyse is nearly as bad, and she uses every opportunity possible to tease Y’shtola about allowing herself to be convinced to sleep within her sister’s arms for “just an extra bell” whenever they share a bed, rare as those occasions are.

“Will Orella be eating breakfast?”

“Eventually. Vochstein stole my spot and they looked rather cozy when I left,” she says with an offended huff. _She_ had been comfortable, buried in blankets and curled up in Orella’s arms -they had switched positions while she slept- head tucked under her chin. The original goal may have been to provide some protection against nightmares for the physician, but she had taken as much solace from it as the other woman had. She hasn’t shared her bed with anyone aside from Mhitra or Sae since well before the Calamity, and those occasions grow rarer by the year.

Excepting Lyse and Y’shtola, obviously, who were perfectly content with their sleeping arrangement at the company house and saw no reason to change it when Y’shtola’s room can be put to better use.

“You must think highly of her.” Mhitra glances away from her chopping of tomatoes to smile ruefully. “You don’t typically sleep well with others.”

“I guess.” Does she? She can’t say she knows much about Orella, but she can’t say she dislikes her either. In fact, she had been a refreshing aura of calm amongst the storm that is her excitable family last night. The physician is dedicated to her cause and a skilled healer with a terrific bedside manner. There’s plenty to like about her.

Aside from her disturbing ability to make her flustered and self-conscious. For...reasons.

So caught up in her thoughts and musings, she forgets Mhitra is there until she says, “So you two-”

“It was once!” she interrupts instinctively.

Mhitra blinks at her, confused. “...Will be leaving around lunch time, or before?” she finishes, smiling almost deviously at her cringe.

The silence after she mutters her weak answer -before lunch, because there will be plenty of food to introduce Orella to in the city- is oppressive. Of all her family, Mhitra is the one she has always shared her troubles with, is the only one who knows how hard she struggled to be everything the Resistance needed, desperate to live up to her father’s legacy as doubts haunted her every step. She was there to help when she wanted to reconnect with Lyse, there to chide her into taking a break every now and then, there to give advice for her few -and brief- romances.

“It isn’t anything serious,” she says, her need for help too great to ignore. “We were caught in a snowstorm in Coerthas. Got chased into a river. Found a cave to wait it out. We weren’t exactly fully functioning, mentally, because of the hypothermia. Not that it wasn’t, ah, enjoyable. Or. You know. Just. It happened.”

“But that isn’t the issue, is it?” Placing a full plate down in front of her -breakfast is an omelette and only the steam rising from the freshly made meal keeps her from scarfing it down to avoid talking- Mhitra takes the seat opposite hers.

She pokes at the eggs, determining how to phrase her words. There are too many thoughts running together, ideas dashing away before they’re fully formed. Eventually, she sighs and says, “I never expected to have a Resistance member from home here. At home.”

At _home_ , because this is her home now. Gyr Abania is home too, but in a different way. Ala Mhigo is where she was raised, is the core of everything she is, but Sharlayan is where she grew into an adult, and Eorzea is where her family came together. They are all home, all a part of Yda Hext, and it isn’t as though those aspects of her life have never mixed, but Orella is. She’s different.

“The Resistance, my people, they’re fighting _every day_ , just to stay alive, and here I am…”

“Here you are, helping them, helping Little Ala Mhigo, helping the Scions, preventing the entire continent from being destroyed, making connections to the city-states that are Gyr Abania’s only hope, always traveling, always fighting, losing friends and allies every year?” Mhitra sums up for her, exasperated. “Or do you mean, here with your family thriving in spite of the fact that half of it is constantly throwing themselves in harms way? Do you truly fear being judged for providing for your family?”

“Yes. No. Maybe?” she waffles, despairing at how much she sounds like Lyse when she has to explain some disaster or another to Y’shtola. Is being weak to Rhul’s a genetic trait?

“On the contrary, I wish more soldiers would do the same.”

Startled for the second time that morning, she jumps to her feet in alarm and swings around to stare at Orella. “Can’t you make some _noise_ when you walk?!” she demands, clutching her heart and glaring.

Vochstein, nestled in Orella’s arms, whistles in smug satisfaction.

“I could.”

“Then do!”

Mhitra is the one to suggest Orella stay with them after they return from their four-day trip to Wineport. They have a potions room upstairs -the room that would have been Shtola’s had she wanted it- and access to Limsa Lominsa; easily the best place to obtain any ingredients she should need, due to the lively port. Little Ala Mhigo is not so desperate as to need another healer, and having a private, fully stocked workroom would ensure that she complete her work far faster than being forced to experiment with limited tools.

She agrees, because who can argue those points? Orella settles into their home easily, allowing her to attend to her own missions without having to supervise the physician. Though she is home nearly every night, between leading Minfilia's non-Scion group of adventurers, Resistance requests, and advising Gundobald with matters for Little Ala Mhigo, there is no end to her work. Lyse helps with the latter, of course, keeping an eye on those they have helped settle in Eorzea, running supplies to the town, training with the young warriors, and assisting the Flames with her own unit of "Mhigan" adventurers, but it never feels as though they are doing _enough_.

The sennights pass, and she nearly forgets that there was a time before Orella was there to greet her when she comes home -no matter the hour- or patch her up when Mhitra and Y’shtola are gone, or talk to late into the night when sleep eludes them. After a moon, she counts the woman among her closest friends.

Orella has much to say of Gyr Abania; mostly how it has suffered under Garlean rule, but there are good stories too, of her now deceased family, her old village, and the Resistance members she has worked with. Most of those tales end in tragedy, it’s true, but she is apparently of mind that the happy times deserve to be remembered no matter that pain.

 _“It will be years before I am truly healed, before I can think of them without pain, but I refuse to let the memories of better days be tainted by my loss. I have so few of them to hold dear as it is._ ”

Orella smiles at her then, grief in her tone and posture no matter her previous words, but she is captivated because she knows that pain, knows that sentiment. Only it had taken her _years_ to decide that for herself. Years that saw so many memories and traditions fade. Years that she let _Lyse’s_ memory fade until the damage was too severe to be reversed.

The only thing left of Kysa Hext is a blurry memory of her smile, the faint echo of her voice, the ghostly sensation of hands smoothing her hair. It’s hard to differentiate Lyse from Kysa in her memories at times, because Lyse is so much like their mother that it aches.

_“Strength to fight and strength to live.”_

_“Enjoy it while you can, Yda. She’ll be taller than you someday, just you watch.”_

_“There’s no time, my loves.”_

The clearest memories she has left of Curtis Hext is the memory of the smile that began to lose its mirth shortly after Lyse was born and the temple was razed, his grim voice listing the latest victims of the Mad King, and his tight grip on her shoulders as he said goodbye to them for what wound up being the last time.

It isn’t much, but it’s far more than what Lyse has, and if there’s anything that she refuses to forgive herself for, it is _that_.

Her frustration must have shown on her face, because Orella grabs her hand and squeezes softly. No other words are said; they are content to continue watching the children play on the beach. Sae and Vochstein are building an enormous sand castle while Raf builds a life size sand Carbuncle peacefully, but she knows that if she takes her eyes of any of the brats, they could easily disappear and get themselves into trouble. It’s happened more times than she can count.

She wakes up the next day with Orella’s head in her lap -they had fallen asleep on the couch immediately after they return home- and Sae curled into her side.

For the next two moons, she desperately attempts to convince herself that Orella is her _friend_ and that is _all_. Aside from That One Time.

It’s easy to remember when she is off on missions, more difficult when she is around the woman herself, and _impossible_ when she sees others flirting with Orella.

Which is essentially half the people in Hahette’s _goddamn_ company, or really even most of those related to the company in any way; adventurer, soldier, or client, the likelihood of a majority of them being a flirt or just outright crude is annoyingly high. Yet she can’t say a damn thing because Orella isn’t _hers_ , and any who crosses the line between flirting and crassness is given a swift tongue lashing from Orella herself.

She rather enjoys how devastatingly effective with her words Orella can be, but she would prefer to be allowed to punch anyone who leers at her friend.

It’s hard to say if her frustration and aggression are born of possessiveness, or her irritability that anyone dare bother a woman who is meant to be _relaxing_ after so much loss and pain. Orella deserves to smile, deserves to be happy, and she isn’t above manipulating meeting times and locations to ensure any who threaten that happiness once never do so again.

Hahette laughs at her the third time she changes meeting times, claiming that she “has it bad” and “why are you so nervous if you’ve already lain with her once?” She scowls, but isn’t surprised that Hahette knows, because the adventurer has been one of Mhitra’s closest confidants since long before they became mates.

“Like _you’re_ one to talk about having it bad,” she says grumpily. “Tell me again how long it took you to work up the nerve to ask Mhitra to be your mate, after your souls were already irrevocably bound?”

They glare at each other, but the changes are allowed and Hahette waves off Orella’s inevitable questions with the ease of a lifelong actress.

The short-lived satisfactions of having made Orella’s life slightly more pleasant do nothing for her personal issues, however. Romance isn’t her thing. Relationships in general tend to be difficult for her, as any in her family or circle of friends and acquaintances can attest. She isn’t like Mhitra, with a soul-bond and a lover who is perfect for her in every way, or like Lyse, whose love and loyalty for Y’shtola can only be matched by Y’shtola’s for _her_ , though the two have yet to acknowledge it.

No, she has her missions and her family, and that is enough. Her few lovers never made an impression on her, never left her missing them, wanting them. They had been convenient, and then they had been a hassle. There is simply too much going on in her life, and too much trauma that she has resolutely ignored since her childhood. Other refugees had been her preference at first, because they understood her pain in a way that no Sharlayan could, then they started getting close, and _emotional_ , and she went through a phase where she preferred anyone but a fellow refugee.

But never could she be close to them, or consider them more than a passing interest.

She doesn’t want that with Orella. She _likes_ Orella. Orella, who isn’t a refugee, or ignorant of Gyr Abania’s plight. This isn’t a woman she wants to simply leave when she gets bored, just like she always does. Her friend deserves so much better; their friendship deserves to be treated better than that. She doesn’t know how to be both a lover and a friend, isn’t sure she can handle the fallout of the relationship failing, which is stupid and senseless because they’ve hardly known each other for three moons.

Though that begs the question; does she want a _relationship_? Casual sex is a thing. Not a thing she prefers, but then, if she isn’t invested in a relationship, one can argue that semi-casual sex is exactly what she prefers.

Ugh. Why do relationships have to be so hard?

“How long are you going to continue this brooding? I’ve half a mind to leave you and take Vochstein with me instead.”

Frowning at Orella, who still in her pajamas and sipping her freshly made coffee while leaning against the counter, she grunts. “I’m not brooding. I’m thinking.”

“Looks painful, mum. Maybe you should stop,” Sae quips. Snagging a bagel from her pile, he gives her a wide grin and laugh, dodging the dish towel she throws at him as he runs out of the kitchen.

She huffs when the front door slams shut -Sae and Lyse are way too rough on that door- though she knows she’s smiling too widely for anyone to believe that she’s annoyed.

Sae calling her “mom” is a relatively new development; one that she had never expected to happen. They had been adamant that the children refer to them however they wanted. After losing everything and then crossing into foreign soil, forcing them into their family would have likely made the children think were trying to _replace_ their parents. None of them wanted that, but now it feels...right.

“That brat is hanging around too many bad influences,” she says anyway, because it’s true. Y’shtola and Hahette have been around more often than usual in the last moon.

Orella sighs in exasperation. “Those are literally the words you said to Papalymo last sennight.”

“...Heh. Yeah.”

She is given another sigh, and her ears catch Orella quietly bemoaning Hext women into her coffee cup as the physician retreats back upstairs to prepare for their outing. Crossing her path is Vochstein, who enters the kitchen with the light tapping of his claws against the floor. Flying is a faster method of travel, but he has enjoyed making noise with his claws as long as he has had them, to the point where he has learned to tap out several popular songs along to Thancred’s singing.

Much to Y’shtola’s displeasure and Lyse’s amusement.

“Didn’t want to say goodbye to your brother?” she asks him lightly.

The griffin chirps, then flies onto the counter so he can dig through their pile of unsorted groceries in the corner. Whistling firmly, he pulls out a bag of herbal candies and holds it out her her.

“Ah, Lyse is still feeling it, is she? Don’t you worry. She’s under strict orders to rest.”

Vochstein doesn’t have a large range of expressions, but she can _feel_ the disbelieving look he would express if he were able. She can’t say she blames him; she barely believes her own words.

“Relax. We’ve threatened to tell your mother if she dares crawl out of her room. Now get those to her, pick a scarf for the day, and let her know we’re going to the city market. Oh, and pick up your toys from the living room before Fang steals them again. I saw that monster wandering around the yard.”

With an excited chirp and hop, Vochstein flies off to give Lyse her medicine. The griffin loves the city, loves the rush of the crowd, and loves how he inevitably acquires a new trinket -usually a scarf- to add to his collection. With Lyse out from fever, the poor child can use a distraction from his determined vigil.

The family as a whole is always tense when Lyse is ill, a lingering trauma from the days when they believed her dead, and afterwards when she lay in a coma. It grates on her sister’s nerves, of course, to be checked on and watched so carefully whenever she has a sniffle, but she doesn’t understand what they had gone through in those moons, doesn’t understand that she is the heart of their little family. The constant care is one of the few things in existence that will ignite an argument between Lyse and Y’shtola.

Four years it may have been since the Calamity, but some wounds yet remain.

The novelty of Vochstein’s company keeps Orella preoccupied on the trip, and ensuring the griffin remains within eyesight keeps them _both_ occupied while they shop. He is a bundle of energy that few can keep up with, flitting from stall to stall ahead of them, holding things up to inquire after their purpose, or lagging behind them to accept the compliments and cooing of dubious strangers. He is worse than Raf and Sae combined; they at least have a proper distrust of strangers, even if they’re just as energetic as the griffin.

She wishes she were capable of understanding him, of hearing his words and thoughts. Lyse claims he has lots of them, and Y’shtola mutters that he has _too many_ of them, but they are both proud and indulgent of his curiosity. They all are, truthfully. Any in their family can often be found explaining their work or readings to the griffin as if he were a student, albeit a silent one to all but his mothers. Raforta and Saemundr tend to have dramatic arguments over who gets to spend time with him; Raf insists that Vochstein is the best inspiration for her arcanist studies, and Sae claims that he needs him to make R’lhinah less anxious.

Poor Vochstein never knows which sibling to side with.

They leave the market several bells closer to sunset than planned, arms full of -mostly- necessary purchases and a new scarf for Vochstein. Leaning against the ship rail, staring down at the clear water below, her attention is half on the conversation with Orella and half on her internal thoughts concerning the day.

It had been fun, relaxing, and, most importantly, enlightening.

She is satisfied with everything she has now; happy with her current relationship with Orella. It’s _this_ , the gentle teasing, the laughter, the easy trust that they have established that matters more than anything else. That she craves more than anything else.

“Is he attempting to catch dinner?” Orella asks, laughing as she watches Vochstein fly with the seabirds next to the ship. From a distance, the griffin blends in with the birds, who seem to accept the intruder in their midst without fuss or curiosity. He can only be distinguished by the bright blue scarf with yellow trim that he wears, as he has foregone the rest of his outfit for this outing.

It’s an amusing sight, but she can’t bring herself to look away from her friend; not when her smile is so captivating, her eyes sparkle in the sun, and her hair -a darker yellow than her own- whips around her face in the wind, prompting the physician to attempt to tame it with a quick brush of her hand every so often.

 _‘Just friends,_ ’ she tells herself as her hands itch to run through the hair she so rarely sees free.

‘ _Just friends_ ,’ she tells herself as she battles the urge to cover Orella’s lips with her own.

“Yda?”

She blinks, blood rushing to her cheeks when she realizes that she had completely lost focus. How long has Orella been trying to gain her attention? Not long, she hopes, but her friend looks exasperated and impatient.

“...Honestly. I think I’ve awaited your decision long enough.”

There’s no time to react to the cryptic words before Orella is stepping into her personal space. There’s no time to react to the object of her affection being so close that her long jacket brushes against her leg and her hair caresses her face. There’s no time for anything but a burst of confusion and a hint of a frown tugging at her lips, then Orella grabs her hips and pulls her close, leaning down to kiss her.

Whatever romantics and epic stories like to say, there is no sudden shift in her world, no sense that she has found a soulmate, no lightning strike of knowledge that Orella is The One for her. If anything, she simply doesn’t know _what_ to think because gods dammit she had _just_ made up her mind and now she has to rethink everything all over again.

But as much as she wants to complain, Orella is _kissing her_ and she sure as all hells is going to take advantage of it. Her body melts into the kiss with a moan that would have been embarrassing if she were in any condition to care.

She is dizzy when they separate; from the lack of air, from the mix of emotions churning inside her, and from the rocking of the boat. Sea travel has never been her favorite method of transportation, but it _would_ give her the perfect excuse to drag Orella to the couch or her bed and sleep in her arms.

“You leave in four moons,” she says softly, the breathless words barely audible over the roar of the ocean waves.

Orella hums into her neck, and she fidgets as her lips trail over a ticklish spot. “Then we make the most of them. Once I return to Gyr Abania, after all, there is no guarantee that I will survive any given day.”

Right, because no one, not even a medic, is safe when the enemy is the all powerful Empire. Crossing the wall alone is risky, and they have lost no few people to that task. Every day that Orella is gone will be a waiting game. Waiting to hear if she made it across the wall, waiting to hear if she made it to Rhalgr’s Reach, waiting to hear where her new post is, waiting to hear if she makes it _there_ safely.

Her family deals with that unbearable wait every time one of them leaves on a mission, but they, at least, have their home to return to, to wait for each other at. There is no such luxury for Orella, and the idea already makes her tense and unsettled.

“That is a worry to leave for later times.” She emphasizes her words by kissing Orella again, and again, and again, until any thought of death and the long distance between Gyr Abania and Vylbrand is forgotten.

And until Vochstein drops a fish _half her size_ at them from the sky, having apparently decided to fetch dinner for the family. And half the neighborhood. Gods above. How had he carried that thing?

“...I’m not cooking that.”

“Oh, well done. This will serve us for a sennight at least.”

Vochstein purrs at the compliment, then forces himself between them so that he can settle into Orella’s arms.

“Excuse me! That’s _my_ spot, you stinky little brat!”

Orella smiles at her pout, leaning in to kiss her slowly and passionately. “It’s near time to disembark. I’ll grab our bags, you get the fish.”

Then she slips away before she can come to her senses, leaving her to deal with the damned fish.

“...That’s cheating.”

Mhitra and Hahette take the news of their changed relationship status with exclamations of “finally” and “damn I had another sennight on my bet.” Lyse, she doesn’t get a chance to tell per se, as her sister walks in while Orella is handing over a cute griffin hat that she had bought as a joke.

Lyse takes one look and gasps loudly. “You’re dating now?!” she asks, to the confusion of everyone present but themselves.

“Only if you are!” she snaps back instinctively. Then she freezes and clears her throat. “Uh, I mean. Yes. But not because of this! Anyway, why are you out of bed?!”

“I'm bored!”

She is questioned about Lyse’s reaction later, after dinner has been served and the family has scattered to their rooms. Orella and she have the privacy of the potions room, as her now lover is eager to test some of her acquisitions from the market. When she reveals that receiving griffin-themed items is an inadvertent family courtship practice, she is given a laugh.

“It’s a bit too early to be considering marriage, I would think! But I do like the suggestion that our relationship will stand the test of time.”

Humming, she wraps her arms around Orella’s waist and watches her work.

“I don’t think I’d mind that either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yda's time to shine! I know it's a random pairing, and I'm honestly not sure how I even came up with it, but I like it. Yda is somewhat difficult to write at times, but when I think of how far along her character has come from my first drafts, I feel a little more confident.
> 
> The final chapter will be out within a week. I'll be taking a break from this series for a bit to write other Lyshtola stuff. I have a lot of ideas thanks to the new trailers, but we'll see how that goes. I swear it isn't because I have very vague memories of ARR and need to replay some stuff. >_>


	6. Vochstein and Y'shtola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission goes horribly -nearly fatally- wrong, and though Vochstein is glad to have found a friend in their rescuer, he soon begins to fear that his family may be torn apart in the aftermath.
> 
> Or, you don't have to be a Hext by blood to needlessly worry about family and emotions.

**1576**

“Humans are such fragile creatures. We can break, we can snap, we can easily be shredded at the claws of the beasts we hunt, and yet, somehow, against all odds, we find ways to thrive. We survive disasters more persistently than any beast or bug.”

He tilts his head in confusion. His new friend says odd things, like aunt Mhitra and mother Shtola often do.

“Worry not, young Vochstein. Your mother is stronger than most. I have faith in her recovery.”

Heartened by the reassurance, he chirps and adjusts himself so that his wings cover more of mother Lyse. “ _Thank you for your help, Ysayle_. _We would have been lost without you._ ”

Ysayle, the woman who had rescued them from the snow, smiles at him as she checks mother’s wounds. Though he fears for mother - _she had been so still, and there had been so much blood_ \- he has to believe that she will heal. She _must_ heal. For mother Shtola’s sake. For their family’s sake.

A hand pats his head. “As I said, she will recover in time. Though I admit, I feared the worst when I found you. Fearsome as behemoths are, the cold is truly our greatest opponent. It is most unfortunate that those two come hand in hand due to the Calamity. What a fortuitous coincidence it is, that the behemoth broke through the sole tunnel near this cabin. Now, with nothing left for us but to wait, tell me of yourself.”

“ _You wish to know how I am acquainted with your gift?_ ”

Ysayle chuckles under her breath, rather at odds with their current situation. “Much as I would appreciate that information, do not doubt that I am mainly curious about _yourself_. I’ve never met a plush griffin with a soul that speaks to me through my gift.”

They speak of themselves for many bells. Ysayle speaks of a home lost, of family and friends who perished because a city refused them aid. Her pain is like mother Lyse’s, like aunt Yda and his siblings, and he hopes that mother wakes soon, for he thinks they will become friends. She tells him that she is on a mission of truth, and speaks of dragons, history lost, history _hidden_ , and old wounds that none know how to heal. Her words ring with passion and a desire for justice.

For peace.

His story, he thinks is not as interesting, but he enjoys having someone so different from his family, his neighbors, or the Scions to converse with. The circumstances behind his gaining a “voice,” what his mothers are like, who the Scions are, and how he is acquainted with many who are gifted with the Echo enthrall Ysayle as she keeps watch over mother Lyse. She has many questions for him, though he cannot answer them all. 

The descriptions of the lands he has traveled through are, it turns out, the information Ysayle most appreciates. She claims that Coerthas had once been a sunny place, with green fields, wide rivers, and forests that led to the mountains where dragons dwell. Now, ice has a permanent claim on the land, and though she has tells of many forays into the forests of chocobos and dragons, she quietly shares her longing for the Coerthas of old.

He cannot give her that, but he can give her visions of the sea sparkling in the sunset, of the towering trees of the Twelveswood, of the endless deserts of Thanalan. He can give her the warmth of his home and his family, which are tales she does not tire of.

“You have traveled more of Eorzea than most people even know exists, little griffin. I find myself envious.”

Pulling at mother’s blanket, he considers the words. “ _Yes, but it comes at a price_ ,” he says gravely. “ _Mother has been injured many times, such as now. Mother Shtola often stumbles home, weary and spent of aether. My aunts, too, face danger often. Sometimes… Sometimes I wonder if it is worth it. Protecting others is a good, noble cause, but I do not want to lose my family. My mothers. I do not think I could bear it, however selfish it sounds._ ”

Ysayle is quiet for a moment, then pats his head. “That is not selfishness, Vochstein. That is love, and it is nothing to be ashamed of. Selfishness is begging them to stop, against their own desires. It is a thin line to tread, between concern and selfishness, it is true. You ought to speak to them about your fears. I do not think they will judge you harshly, or find you wanting.”

He ponders her words through the night, as Ysayle and mother rest. His mind is too full of worry to do the same, so he occupies himself with keeping his mother warm and the fire lit. The days pass, one after another, in a similar manner. Mother Lyse heals slowly but surely. She never wakes, but her color improves, and she does not look so pained in her slumber. After a sennight, his curiosity drives him to brave the snow with Ysayle in search of firewood, listening solemnly as she teaches him how humans are to survive in such a merciless environment.

The information has no personal use, for he feels neither the ice nor the biting wind, but he resolves to remember for mother’s sake.

“So you cannot feel any temperature? Or wound?”

Shaking off the powdery snow that sticks to his feathers, he slowly walks into the hut. “ _No. My body has no such capacity. I do not care for water, because it makes me heavy, but heat and cold do not affect me._ ” There is a pile of towels in front of the fireplace, arranged into a makeshift nest for him. He quickly climbs into it, spreading out his wings so that he can dry faster. The longer it takes to dry, the longer he is away from mother.“ _I have lost my stuffing once. It was an odd sensation. There is no pain, however. Some of the others say it is a blessing, but sometimes I wish I_ could _feel pain. Feel the heat of the sun and the cold of the ice. What does wind feel like, when it is ruffling my feathers? Are fish slimy like aunt Yda says? Are mother Lyse’s hugs as warm as my siblings say? ...Am I truly alive if I do not feel such things?”_

Ysayle quietly tends to her tea, lost for words. He does not expect an answer, is not sure he _wants_ one. Burying his head under his claws, he fights shame and embarrassment at his questions. It isn’t a topic he has ever brought up with his mothers or his family. Such worries seem silly, when there are so many important things to occupy his family’s attention,.

Hiding as he is, the blanket that drops onto him draws a startled whistle out of him.

“None of that brooding now, little griffin,” Ysayle says fondly. “All creatures experience the world differently. A soul is not born from the ability to feel the elements alone; it is the ability to love. And love is something you do very deeply. I wish more of my kind were like you and your family. Much pain in our history could have been averted.”

Overwhelmed by his friend’s words, he curls up under the heavy blanket, and says softly, “ _Thank you._ ”

Mother wakes for the first time two days later. She is not awake for long, but mother has always been a fast healer, and another two sennights see her able to sit up and feed herself. Just as he had hoped, mother and Ysayle get along well; not that mother is typically unfriendly.

“I’m almost tempted to stay here forever. I _know_ I’m never going to hear the end of it when I get back. Assuming Shtola doesn’t kill me outright.” Her words are said with laughter, but when it comes time for Ysayle to escort them toward -but not into- Camp Dragonhead, she reiterates her feelings in a far more apprehensive manner.

Ysayle smiles wryly. “I wish you luck, Lyse Hext. And you as well, little griffin. Do not forget my words.”

He nods, his new scarf patterned with blue and white snowflakes whipping in the wind. “ _I will not. Goodbye, Ysayle_.”

Naively, he assumes their return home will be met with the same joy that Haurchefant Greystone -the man who had hired them, and whose soldiers had fought beside them in their hunt for the behemoth- showered upon them. There is relief, to be sure, and his siblings are quick to attach themselves to mother Lyse, sobbing at the sight of her after over a moon filled with fear and depression. Aunt Mhitra, too, holds mother and himself tightly, hardly crying but shaking enough that he worries she will collapse.

Hahette is less emotional, giving mother a soft hit and scowl. “Never do that again, you idiot. That bleeding heart of yours is going to kill you _permanently_ someday. Had it not been for Y’shtola’s crystal, we would have thought you truly dead.”

Nevertheless, she is gentle when hugging mother, is the first to usher her to the couch, and the first to offer dinner.

Mother Shtola’s reaction when she finally arrives home a day later is...curious. She gives them both hugs, insists -orders- mother Lyse to allow her to examine her injuries, and makes no fuss when he is reluctant to leave her lap, easily gathering him in her arms when she needs to move. He may not be capable of feeling warmth, but being in his mother’s arms is comforting and reassuring. She listens without comment to their retelling of their adventure, from their initial trip to Camp Dragonhead to the Knight’s request that they bolster his sorely overwhelmed troops to the fight against the enormous alpha behemoth to their rescue by Ysayle.

She is interested in hearing more of Ysayle, but the sun has long fallen by this time, and she holds her questions for another day.

“Why don’t you stay with your siblings tonight. They have missed you terribly.”

He sees no issue with the order, for though he has missed mother Shtola, and he is reluctant to leave mother Lyse out of his sight, his presence comforts Raf and Sae. Leaving the room with goodnight hugs and kisses, he thinks little of his subtle exodus.

Two sennights later, his mothers have not once smiled at each other since.

“They’re just stubborn,” aunt Yda says with a shrug when he asks after his mothers. “Lyse had good reasons for her actions, but it was still reckless. You know how your mother gets when she’s injured. They’ll get over it.”

He remains unsure, but when she offers to take him to the Waking Sands to speak with Minfilia, he jumps at the chance to escape the awkward atmosphere of the house. His mothers may be displeased with one another, but they remain close as always when one is injured. Unfortunately, this has done little to ease their irritation. Quite the opposite, truthfully, and more than once he has bolted from a room when their exchanges become heated. He loves his mothers, but he does not like it when they argue.

“It is a shame that she did not wish to speak with us. If her tales are true, then it is possible she has been blessed with the Echo as long as I have, if not longer,” Minfilia laments, disappointed at the end of his tale. The news of another with the Echo excited her, but her eagerness had been dampened by his revealing that Ysayle had denied mother’s offer to visit the Waking Sands.

_“No. I’ve my own path to walk, little griffin, and I do not yet know what it will cost me_. _”_

Even now, sennights later, he cannot pinpoint why those words trouble him.

A’aba, who had joined the meeting in order to hear the news of mother Lyse, scoffs. “Ishgard has always been keen on taking care of its own business. Even if our help was desired, we are in no position to give it. The holy council or whatnot operates on an “us vs everyone else” policy. Our claims of neutrality will mean nothing to them.”

Minfilia sighs, but does not dispute his assessment. Ysayle had said as much of Ishgard herself, though she was far more disparaging with her words.

“Enough of them. How is Lyse?”

Aunt Yda eagerly takes the change in topic, praising yet complaining about mother. “She’s fine, overall. The frostbite was nearly as bad as the large gash in her back, and let me tell you, Y’shtola is _not_ happy with her. Lyse is being real stubborn about it, too. I think they _growled_ at each other once. It’s hilarious, when I’m not in the same room. Then it’s just awkward.”

“Mates are like that,” A’aba says dismissively. “As long as she is alive and relatively safe, that’s all that matters. I must say, that girl has a knack for getting herself in over her head and surviving in the oddest ways. A _true_ adventurer, that one.”

“Oh, they aren’t like that. Yet. Somehow. I still don’t understand. How dense can they be?”

“I said mates, not lovers.”

“Eh? They’re different?!”

“In a manner of speaking.”

He ignores Aunt Yda and A’aba’s conversation, as he doesn’t understand what they are speaking of. Instead he turns his attention to Minfilia, who is watching the other two with a smile.

“ _Why were you given your gift?_ ” he asks.

Minfilia turns her attention to him, smile fading into a thoughtful frown. “We cannot be sure why _any_ of us were chosen by the Mother,” she answers slowly. “In spite of our research, and the research of other renowned institutions, the gift appears to be given at random. Are we meant to be important to some grand scheme of Hers? Or do we simply have the _potential_ to be. We cannot say, for we have not found all with the Echo, or know much of those who were once blessed. I suspect that the answer will only be found in the future, when scholars look back at all we have done.”

Laying down on the desk, he rests his head on his outstretched paws. “ _That does not make sense. Why bless a person with a gift and not tell them what they are meant to do with it? What if they do not do what the Mother wants? That does not seem very efficient,_ ” he concludes, put out by the answer. Minfilia has often said that the Mother is all-knowing, but perhaps he had heard wrong, or maybe the definition is not what he thought.

Minfilia chuckles, petting his head and changing the direction of the topic. “You wish to help your friend?”

Embarrassed, he covers his beak with his paws, thinking that “all-knowing” better describes Minfilia rather than the Mother. He knows it’s foolish for a plush griffin to assume it can be of any help at all to someone as strong as Ysayle, especially from the other end of Eorzea. His power is so limited, and he cannot even speak to many others.

“Though we can do nothing now, I promise we will watch the situation carefully. Politics change by the day, and that she possesses the Echo all but guarantees we will meet again in the future. All we need do is await our chance,” Minfilia assures him.

His worries are not fully assuaged, but knowing that his friends are willing to help gives him comfort. They stay in Thanalan for many bells after their talk with Minfilia. Aunt Yda settles down near the bookshelves with Ivoix and Papalymo, and he is taken outside to play power fetch with A’aba and Thancred. Eventually, they return home, his mood so uplifted that he forgets his mothers are fighting.

Of course, it does not last, for when they walk into the house, mother Lyse is sleeping on the couch. Again.

“Yikes. Good thing we stayed so late. That must have been quite the argument,” aunt Yda whispers under her breath. “I wonder if anyone is still awake.”

Aunt Yda does not wonder long, for mother Shtola appears at the top of the stairs, dressed for bed and book in hand. Walking down to greet them, she covers her mouth to hide her yawn.

“Finally back, are you? I trust you enjoyed yourself.”

Mother does not sound angry or upset, but he cannot help but hesitate before greeting her. It is difficult to tear his gaze away from mother Lyse, to not think of the tension that has permeated their household since their return from Coerthas.

“Minfilia’s interest was piqued, but as Lyse said, there is little we can do to help. All were glad that Vochstein visited.” Aunt Yda glances down at mother’s sleeping form, then back at mother Shtola.

“She was helping Sae with his forms, and fell asleep after dinner. Sore as her back has been, I did not want to risk carrying her up to bed myself,” mother Shtola explains with a heavy sigh.

So they weren’t arguing again? They are not angry at each other? Relieved, he squirms out of aunt Yda’s arms and flies to mother Lyse, gently landing on the top of the couch. He would prefer to curl up at mother’s stomach in order to rest and watch over her, but his favorite spot is taken by a pillow. Knowing from experience how strong her grip can be even when deep in slumber, he does not dare attempt to take its place.

Aunt Yda gingerly carries mother Lyse to bed, complaining about how _light_ she is and how she needs to eat more. Mother Shtola gathers him in her arms and follows without comment. She does not seem as tense as usual, petting him absently as they walk. It is the most relaxed he has seen her since before the mission in Coerthas, and he has high hopes that his mothers have finally come to an understanding.

After mother Lyse is tucked into bed, mother Shtola places him on the nightstand next to her side of the bed and retrieves the comb for his feathers. He had been careful to avoid the sea this time -his mothers commented on the strong salt scent that lingered after his last fall into the ocean- but such rough play always leaves him dusty and stained.

“Rather quiet today, aren’t you? I presume Thancred or A’aba were there to tire you out?” mother asks as she brushes the dust off of him. Then, under her breath, she adds, “You really do take after your mother far too much.”

The comment stirs further apprehension in him, and, unable to help himself, he blurts out, “ _Do you hate mother?_ ”

The brushing stops. “Of course not. Whyever would you-”

“ _But you are angry at her. And do not talk to her,_ ” he interrupts, turning to stare at her. “ _Do you not want her anymore? Do you not want to be family? Are you going to-_ ”

“Vochstein! Enough. Goodness, little one.” Mother’s voice is exasperated, but when she lifts him, her hands are shaking. “Where are you getting such ideas?”

He droops in her hold. For all his brooding, all the conversations he has imagined and questions he wants to ask, no words come to him at the moment he has finally gathered the courage to speak on the matter. “ _But...you are so angry_ ,” he says plaintively.

Mother sighs. “Look at me.”

He obeys slowly.

“I love your mother. Do not doubt that. Do not _ever_ doubt that. Though not my blood as Mhitra is, we all are a _family_ , and you matter more to me than anything else in this world,” mother says fiercely. “Yes, I am angry. I spent the last moon upset, worried, _terrified_. I lost you both once before, and that is a pain I will not stand to endure again. Not when it would have been inflicted so _needlessly_.”

“ _You are angry at mother..._ because _you love mother?_ ” He does not understand the concept. Arguing is part of being a family, so his mothers and aunts have impressed upon his siblings and himself through the years, but this tension and disharmony is beyond simple arguments. 

Regardless, his mother’s concerns echo his own fears; the fears he can not bring himself to share with any but Ysayle. “ _Do you wish her to quit the company?_ ”

Mother lowers him to her lap and allows him to settle as she considers her reply. “Quit? It would be rather hypocritical of me to ask her to cease adventuring, would it not?” she says with a wry smile. “No, I have long accepted the risks inherent in _both_ our paths. What upsets me is your mother’s consistent lack of caution, as well her refusal to accept that she is indispensable to the company, and irreplaceable to _us_.”

_“I can’t cling to her forever, Vochstein. I have to stand on my own again. After all,_ we’re _supposed to be supporting_ her _. Not the other way around. The world needs her, and we can’t drag her down.”_

The memory of those words comes to him, vague and hazy. They are from before the Calamity, before he had a soul with which to love and fear so deeply. The sentiment is so very much like his mother; entirely focused on helping others, yet not once considering that others are more than happy to help _her_.

Which, he has noted, often leads to her not _wanting_ to ask for help at times when she rightfully should be.

“ _I do not like it when she is hurt_ ,” he whispers, recalling the blood that stained the snow as he desperately cried for help. Her stillness had been too much like the moons he had watched over her comatose form in Drybone, surrounded by strangers and his mind whirling from his new level of consciousness. “ _But it’s important to protect others, isn’t it?_ ”

“Indeed it is. I simply want to impress upon her the importance of _not_ running out to fight a dangerous creature without informing us, without notable backup, in an unfamiliar landscape.”

Their talk must have taken mother’s last reserves of energy, for she yawns after answering. Shaking her head lethargically, she places him next to mother Lyse, ordering him to sleep and worry himself no further on the subject. He submits to the former without argument, but cannot help mulling over their conversation and the information mother has revealed to him.

His family is still a family; his mothers still love and care for each other. He can breathe easy once more -figuratively speaking- in that respect. What keeps his mind occupied is not the status of his family’s squabbles, but the other half of his conversation with mother. There had been a sense of something left unfinished in that conversation. He cannot say if it is his own unspoken concerns, or if mother herself had something that she wanted or needed to say.

Eventually, the birds sing their morning songs, and the sun rises. Mother Lyse is the first to wake, stirring into consciousness with huffs and grumbles. She hugs him close as she wakes, then lifts him over to mother Shtola’s side, that she may throw her arm around them both and return to sleep. It is the usual routine on the rare mornings that mother Lyse wakes first.

It is very different from mother Shtola’s morning routine; which is to watch mother Lyse for a time, hand tracing her features delicately, expression loving yet melancholy until she attempts to wake her.

He has never known what to make of it, for what reason does mother Shtola have to be sad when their family is together and happy?

Well. They are not _always_ together. In fact, they are very rarely together, for his mothers and aunts travel often. Is she sad that she is so rarely granted the opportunity to sleep with mother Lyse? Sad that it must soon be over?

Wriggling out from his mother’s grasp, he sits himself at the edge of the bed and observes them. Mother Lyse has fallen back into slumber, hair sticking up on one end, arm securely around mother Shtola’s waist. She is far from fully recovered from her injuries, but it’s impossible to tell that anything was ever wrong with her, peaceful as her expression is.

She had looked peaceful in the snow, too, as she lay dying. Bleeding out, skin pale as the snow itself, lips turning blue, and breath growing weaker with every passing second.

Hesitantly, he reaches out to rest a paw on mother’s arm. There’s a scar under his claws, faint in the morning light, but he remembers how her arm had been covered in blood, the wound left untended as the fight against the furious behemoth and its pack raged on. Mother has many scars; some visible, many more long faded away.

“Is something wrong, Vochstein?”

Mother Lyse has one eye cracked open, staring at him from above mother Shtola’s head.

He flinches, but does not move away. “ _No. No I. I only want to make sure you are truly here_.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, and he regrets it instantly, his feelings made worse by mother’s huff of laughter.

“Where else would I be?”

_Bleeding out in the snow. Comatose in a dirty inn room. Slowly dying from fever and infection._

“ _Dead,_ ” he mutters, tone so bitter it surprises him as much as it surprises his mother. “ _Hurt. Always, always_ hurt _. And always, I can do nothing. Always, I must watch. How long will you be here? How long before you are taken away? It’s selfish to want you to stay, but I do not want to lose you! I_ cannot _lose you. I can’t. I can’t._ ”

He thought he had been okay, thought that he was over the fear of watching mother nearly die, but saying those words causes panic and despair to crush his mind, his _soul_ with a weight that he thinks might be true pain. What else can it be, for how awful it feels? Afraid and inexperienced at dealing with whatever is happening to him, he pushes himself against his mothers, pleading at mother Lyse to stay, _please stay do not leave him_.

He loses sense of time and place, unable to hear, unable to think. He feels lost in darkness, just as he was during his first moments of consciousness. Moments that were both an instant yet a lifetime, where the only emotion he felt was fear, and the only sensation outside oppressive darkness was his mother’s aether coursing through him, protecting him from the void magics as they were swallowed by atomos.

Just like now, he realizes. Focusing on the aether his mother is attempting to soothe him with, he fights to break free of his panic. He is held securely in mother Lyse’s arms -though he remembers not when she moved him- her face buried in his back. His ears catch the sound of his mother muttering apologies and comforting nonsense with a desperation that, strangely, settles his nerves.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m sorry. I’m so, _so_ sorry,” mother Lyse repeats, voice muffled by his feathers.

“ _Please. Make it stop_ ,” he whispers pleadingly.

“I’m sorry. I never thought. We’ll get through this, okay? I’m here, right now. Just. Calm down. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere.”

Safe and secure in his mother’s arms, he clings to the flow of aether she is still providing, burrowing further into her hold. As the strange mess of emotions that paralyze him fades away, he is left with a deep exhaustion that slows his thinking until he drifts into slumber.

_**-Y’shtola-** _

Rare are the times she sleeps in, rarer still the times when she wakes after Lyse, and never has she done so without being curled in her arms, torturously content as her love -but not her lover- hums, or traces indecipherable patterns on whatever patch of exposed skin her hands can reach.

_This_ morning finds her waking to the sight of Lyse, knees drawn up and cradling Vochstein to her chest, expression grim as she stares at the opposite wall blankly.

“Lyse?” she questions softly, unwilling to break the silence of their room too abruptly.

“I really did screw up, didn’t I? After all this time, I forgot that he’s just a child. And I. I just went ahead and didn’t _think_.” The last word is choked out and filled with self-hatred.

Lyse clenches her jaw and rests her head on Vochstein’s back, but not quick enough to hide the tears that run down her cheek. This is not the scene she expected to wake to, is not a scene she can deal with easily even when fully conscious. Unfortunately for all, she is severely sleep deprived -entirely her own fault, she will admit- and is having a difficult time deciding which strand of conversation she wants to follow. So many choices Lyse has given her, all equally difficult topics.

“You are not alone in that error of judgement,” she says eventually. “I too have forgotten how pampered Vochstein is. For all the battles he has seen, he is exceptionally innocent. The poor child feared I would abandon our family due to our disagreement. So preoccupied with our own issues, we utterly ignored _his_ feelings on the matter.”

“In other words, we’re pretty crappy parents,” Lyse mutters. “Guess the Hext blood runs strong.”

She sighs, unwilling to reply to a loaded statement when she is fully aware that it is only bitterness and frustration that draws such a mood out of her normally cheery friend. “Mistakes are an inevitable aspect of life, Lyse. You know this well. We can but learn from them.”

Sitting up, she leans against Lyse’s shoulder and gives Vochstein a scratch while infusing her hand with aether. The griffin doesn’t so much as twitch, a testament to his mental exhaustion. At any other time, such an action would have him up and ready for a morning walk in an instant.

“Though there are many things we cannot avoid and many of his fears we cannot truly put to rest, we can ease his pain,” she says, keeping her voice soft though there is no fear of waking Vochstein. “Firstly, a conversation with us all is long overdue. He should not fear coming to us with his concerns.”

Lyse hums absently, scratching their son’s ears.

“What we do next will be determined from there, but I imagine that you _will_ have to cease running after behemoths and the like without even a marginal effort at acquiring help,” she adds, unable to help bringing up the topic.

“...Yeah.”

Her ears and tail twitch at the defeated acceptance. This ought to be a more satisfactory outcome than renewed arguing, yet she likes not Lyse’s aura. Well-acquainted with the Hext sister’s habit of brooding themselves into depression, she observes her friend’s empty gaze, the trembling of her hands, the clenched jaw, and comes to the conclusion that Lyse’s thoughts are indeed wandering a dark path. And likely have been doing so for bells.

Twisting to face Lyse, she gently yet firmly coaxes her to raise her head, cradling her face with her hands. Few things break a Hext from their thoughts like physical affection or food, but, wanting to impress upon Lyse that this is not a reprimand -they have long exhausted this argument- she rests her forehead against hers.

Partially to gain her _full_ attention.

Partially to keep her from escaping the room.

Partially because she is a lovestruck fool with a taste for masochism, as she yearns to keep Lyse close whenever she has a passable excuse, in spite of the toll it takes on her heart to do so.

“You have _not_ failed him,” she whispers, firm tone brooking no argument on the matter. So firmly, in fact, that one would believe she remains unaffected by their proximity, by the feel of Lyse’s skin under her hands and the allure of her grey-flecked eyes. “Not Vochstein, not myself, not Yda or Mhitra. We are not ashamed of your nature, nor do we desire you to change. _All_ I ask is that you, at the _very_ least, remember how much I love you. Our family would not be the same without-”

“Just you?” Lyse interrupts, voice and expression oddly -frighteningly- intense.

“I. What?” she stutters, cursing herself for her sudden timidity. “As I said, we would not-”

“No,” she interrupts again. “You said how much _you_ love me.”

No. No she had not. She couldn’t have slipped. Well. She has slipped many a time over the years, but she has always been able to play it off, has always counted on Lyse’s obliviousness to save her.

But she has always been _aware_ of her various lapses, therefore always quick to defend herself. Now, she is completely caught off guard and far too tired to take control of the conversation.

“I. I only meant-”

Whatever excuse she was about to fabricate is lost when Lyse kisses her, silencing her words and destroying her line of thought. She spares a moment of indignation about being disrupted three times in a row, but all emotions aside from desire and love vanish as Lyse pulls her into her lap. All her carefully maintained inhibitions are loosed, one hand tangling in the sun-gold hair that she loves, the other wrapping around Lyse’s waist. Every ragged breath, every gasp, every groan that is partially her name is savored, categorized, burned into her memory.

How long has she wanted this? How long has she needed it? Far too long, it seems, and now that she has it, her heart is set to burst.

Just as she wonders how much more she can handle, Lyse pulls away. They stare at each other, breathing heavily. Lyse’s hair is messier than usual, her lips are red and swollen, and there are several bite marks already blooming on her shoulder and neck.

_Gods_ is she beautiful. Beautiful, and _hers_. They have hardly been separated for a breath, yet she already craves more. She needs to be sure that this is _real_ , that this is not merely another dream to haunt her when she wakes. The gods know she has enough lust-fueled dreams for that as it is.

Though in many ways, the dreams fueled by lust are easier to ignore than the dreams filled with easy affection. Dreams that are close to their current reality, with their family much the same but with tender kisses added to their greetings, with Lyse’s hands habitually slipping under her shirt, with smiles or hugs that manage to be more intimate than even their current affection; affection that strays so near to intimacy that she sometimes forgets that Lyse is not _hers_.

“There’s a child present,” Lyse coughs out after an awkwardly long silence.

_Vochstein._ Gods above, she had forgotten all about him.

Visually searching for their slumbering child, she discovers that Lyse had placed him on her pillow. Likely while she had been internally panicking about her slip, for she cannot recall witnessing her do so. By the grace of the twelve, he remains asleep, entirely unaware of his mothers’ passionate makeout session. Otherwise, they would be forced to have one particular conversation that she does _not_ want to deal with today. Or ever, if possible.

“Ah, right. This _is_ better left-”

“I love you too,” Lyse says abruptly. “Not that I didn’t before, because I’ve _always_ loved you, but I mean, I _love_ yo-”

She halts the rambling with a soft, sweet kiss, pretending that those words haven’t made her the happiest person in Eorzea, that the sun in Lyse’s smile has somehow settled in her breast; impossibly warm and overwhelming. “How many times will you interrupt me this morning?” she asks, the heat of her admonishment lost in her breathlessness and smile.

Lyse hums and smirks, lips hovering above her own. “Are you going to _punish_ me?”

The sheer _desire_ those words elicit nearly has her pinning her mate to the bed and doing just that right then and there, but she regrettably must use every ounce of her willpower to keep her libido in check. “ _Vochstein,_ ” she growls out.

“Hehe. So, later then?”

“...You are incorrigible.”

Laughing softly, her friend, lover - _mate?_ \- rests her head on her shoulder and holds her close. “Staying like this is fine too.” Her gently words are but a whisper against her neck, an abrupt change from her earlier tone.

Relaxing into her hold, she hums and closes her eyes. “More than fine.”

When she next opens her eyes, the sun is fully up, she is once again lying in bed -this time within Lyse’s arms- and Yda is ordering her to wake up because they have a Scion meeting to attend.

“Lyse! Let her go!”

“Noooo. She’s mine. Go’way.”

“...Is she now?”

“I saw her _first_.”

Rolling her eyes, she pokes her lover on her side where she is most ticklish. “I need to get dressed, dear.”

Lyse groans and squirms away from her hand. “Minny likes me. S’okay.”

“...You’re going to be late for _your_ meeting as well. Miheone is expe-”

“GAH! SHE’S GOING TO KILL ME!”

Yda is snickering at their spectacle, enjoying being on the delivering end of a rude awakening for once.

Then her expression turns into confusion. “What’s on your neck?”

“Don’t you have a meeting to get to?!”

“ _Why is it so noisy? Is something wrong? Why is mother pushing aunt Yda out the door?_ ” Vochstein stretches out his front paws and wings, a habit they assume he has picked up from Fang, for he has no muscles to loosen.

“...No, little one. We merely slept in. We shall…talk later.”

Their door slams shut, abruptly silencing Yda’s demands for information. Lyse, blushing and cringing, leans against it. “...It’s going to be a _long_ day,” she declares breathlessly.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she sighs and agrees. “There’s nothing to do but ready ourselves for it.”

At the very least, she can count on Minfilia to spare her _too much_ teasing.

_“Is everything okay, mother?”_

Picking up her inquisitive son, she hugs him and says, “Yes, little one. We are fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually a lot of fun! Though it was the hardest chapter to write, because Vochstein is not a character I thought I would ever flesh out. He was demanding a voice, however, so here we are. We're now officially at the beginning of ARR, so that's exciting. Amazing how time flies!
> 
> I won't be posting the continuation for a while -because I haven't started writing it- but I do have other small stories in the works. More food for the Lyshtola fandom.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions or are just curious about the story -or other ideas- you can always shoot me a dm on twitter. Handle is the same as this one.


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